The Weight of Darkness
by SailorChronos1
Summary: Can a man lose his humanity when forced to do something against his will? *Not my story.* Translated from French and reposted with permission of the original author RocheIle17. Please leave a note on her profile. Cover image by Zsoszy.
1. Chapter 1

The Weight of Darkness  
by RocheIle17

It's back to school! New binder, new kit, new pens, and new story! A small explanation of the text concerning the title. No, this is not a way to deceive English-speaking readers (even if it will happen), it's just the title of a work by Icelandic artist Olafur Arnalds (who also composed the soundtrack of the Broadchurch series) whom I love. Moreover if you listen to this music on Youtube (long version, minutes 12 to 18), you will find what will be the general mood of my fic! (Do not trust this rather quiet chapter ^^)

* * *

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" Finch sighed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, tired and anxious of waiting for news from his partner on a mission.

But only the ominous echo of his own voice resonating in the disused subway station answered him. Sitting in front of his computer screens, the computer specialist had tried, for a few minutes already, to contact his agent. But the phone rang desperately in the void which was not reassuring to him, because it was not John's habit not to answer his calls. In general, he picked up on the first ring. This silence did not augur well. The longer it went on, the more Finch's anxiety grew. And as always, the genius could not stop his brain from running at full speed to try to find a reason for this abnormal muteness.

One was supposed to find a myriad of logical and rational explanations to the fact that Reese did not answer: his cellphone could've been damaged during a fall or a fight, he had perhaps lost it while pursuing their Number, or John was just too busy to answer... Anyway, all those assumptions were highly probable, but that wasn't counting on Finch's fertile and overflowing imagination that could not help but fear the worst. He imagined his partner hurt, dying in an alley, or worse, dead, his phone ringing in the void...

And recent discoveries about their target worried him. Finch had just noticed that Sarah O'Mara, the nurse whose number had appeared the day before, was not as kind and professional as it seemed. When Harold had hacked her apartment's wifi password, he had access to her personal computer that she had negligently left on standby. After the tedious analysis of its contents, the computer scientist had spotted a hidden file that had turned out to be her diary. Reading it, Finch realized that they had gone astray: she was not a victim but a dangerous psychopath who had decided, "for the sake of the community", to shorten the lives of the most affected patients at her leisure in order to "save money", as she had so coldly written.

 _Luckily the girl is not a fan of notebooks and pens_ , Harold had thought before dialing John's number to warn him of the danger.

Beginning that morning, Reese had started surveillance on her. Pretending to visit a hospitalized relative, he was easily able to approach the girl. At first glance, she seemed totally harmless: kind, attentive, gentle towards her patients. Using his charm, John had managed to invite her to have a coffee in the hospital restaurant in order to extract from her, casually, some information. Unfortunately for Finch, Mount Sinai Hospital, like many hospitals, had cellphone jammers so the signals did not interfere with the highly sensitive state-of-the-art medical machinery.

It had been several minutes now that he had desperately tried to contact his partner without any results. Finch was starting to be more and more worried. It was all the more so since the empty ringtones had now given way to his voicemail. Why had his phone suddenly shut down? Was it discharged? Off? Broken?

The questions were jostling in the genius's mind, from the most reasonable to the most irrational. At the end of his nerves, he got up from his chair and went to the little kitchen set up in a corner of the abandoned station to prepare a hot drink. He filled the kettle with water and heated it. He grabbed a cup from a cupboard above the sink and then chose his favorite tea from one of the small metal boxes on the worktop. He filled the little tea-strainer with dried leaves and placed it in his cup.

He waited patiently for the kettle to warm up, while keeping an eye on his cellphone in front of him. He felt so useless, alone, here in his dark, dusty lair that he could have cried from spite. It was in this kind of situation that he felt like a dead weight, a disabled person unable to act, just waiting feverishly for his agent to return from the field. Besides his helplessness, the other feeling that tormented him was fear. The visceral fear of losing his partner during one of the missions that he had entrusted to him.

Yet he knew the danger that was inherent in their work. From the beginning of their partnership, he had warned Reese. But now, and against all odds, it was he who was suffering the most from the situation.

 _Sooner or later, we'll probably end up dead, for real this time_.

Harold shuddered as he remembered the words he had uttered so coldly. That warning had been mere rhetoric, to make sure his new agent knew exactly what he was getting into. At that time, John was just a new agent recruited to replace Dillinger. Moreover, to be quite honest, Finch would never have believed that their partnership would have lasted so long. Four years. It had been four years now that the two men had worked together, helped recently by a new duo formed by Shaw and Root.

Initially, this choice had been made by the Machine. It was she who had spotted the potential of this lost man, an expert in weapons, trained in close combat, grounded in interrogation techniques, knowing well how to blend into the crowd that shone in society. Oh yes, John was perfect for the missions.

But this purely rational and objective observation had been posed by the AI with the scientific coldness typical of machines. She had not seen behind the data and statistics the man he was in reality. Harold had seen him. After four years at his side, he had seen the man behind the cold killer in the service of the Numbers. If for the Machine, John remained a field agent, _an asset_ ; for its creator, he was much more. He liked to believe that he had become his partner and maybe, even his friend.

Although deep in his heart, he knew he was much more. But he was not yet ready to put a word on the feelings he awakened in him. He was dying to see him but feared him too. He wanted to touch him without allowing himself permission. He felt a guilty pleasure in contemplating him... No, he was not ready yet...

The hissing of the kettle saved him from his too-disturbing introspection. He poured boiling water into his cup, and while he was steeping his tea, glanced at his phone again. Still nothing.

With his steaming cup of tea in his hand, his cellphone in the other, Finch went back to his desk. Once seated, he tried to contact John again. Voicemail. New sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses while reflecting. Where the hell was he? He decided to locate his agent through the GPS of his phone. He doubted he'd succeed, but hey, as the saying went: whoever tries nothing, has nothing!

With a pounding heart, Finch activated the geolocation of Reese's phone. The loading time of the gauge seemed endless. Oscillating between hope and anguish, he nervously followed the progress of the bar. Once at 100%, the computer scientist held his breath and exhaled loudly in disappointment. No Match.

Enough was enough. He decided to inform Fusco to warn him of the problem. He grabbed his cellphone to dial the criminal detective's number when he heard heavy footsteps echoing in the distance. He slowly swiveled his chair to have a view of the entrance to the subway station and his heart leapt into his chest when he saw Reese slowly approaching him.

"Relax, Finch, no need to call the army, my phone just broke as it fell during the fight," announced the man, waving his cellphone's broken screen as to prove his words.

But Finch did not listen to him, as the look of his agent grabbed all his attention. John was in a bad state. Her hair was shaggy, his suit torn, his lacerated shirt was stained with blood. As he approached, Harold spotted a bruise on his cheekbone and a cut on his lower lip.

"Mr Reese?!" he exclaimed, literally jumping from his seat to take a quick step towards him.

"Calm down, I have nothing serious. I just had to deal with a lovely nurse who turned into a harpy from the moment I started asking her about the suspicious deaths in the hospital. I had a hard time controlling her after she was unleashed, but the problem is now resolved."

As he spoke, the agent moved to his usual place, a bench next to Finch's office. He sighed loudly as he sat down, leaning back against the chair, his head resting against the subway car's window behind him.

"After handcuffing the fury, I asked the restaurant owner to contact Fusco to take her to the station," continued the former operative, eyes closed, giving himself a few minutes of a well deserved rest.

Still standing in the middle of the huge abandoned room, Harold looked at Reese, at once reassured of his general condition but worried about his wounds, especially that to his abdomen. Without a word, he made his way to the small bathroom between the kitchen and Root's small room. He took the little white first aid kit and went back to his agent. At his approach, John slowly opened his eyes to watch him limp towards him, a slight smile floating on his injured lips, as if he was amused to see him so worried.

"I already told you, these are just a few scratches. After a shower, I'll be like new," he murmured, straightening slightly.

Without a word but looking serious, Harold sat down beside him and put the little box on his lap. He turned to John before announcing curtly, "Let me be the judge of that."

"Harold..." sighed the agent, determined not to move.

The computer scientist said nothing, just glancing at him over his glasses. He knew why Reese used his name: it was a way to soften him, to play the sensitive chord, maybe even to charm him so that he would leave him alone. But he did not intend to give in and waited patiently for his agent to comply.

Reese rolled his eyes like a teenager and then complied, not without sighing loudly to signal his dissatisfaction. Finch smiled internally at this puerile attitude but savored his small victory.

John got up, took off his jacket and his now unrecoverable shirt. He raised his arm to allow his boss to assess the damage.

"But what is this?" exclaimed Finch, opening his eyes wide.

Three large, deep, parallel cuts tore at the agent's tanned skin. They started from the top of his ribs and ended on his belly. With a trembling hand, the computer scientist touched the wound.

"A fork," Reese said as if nothing had happened, while clenching his muscles in pain but also embarrassed by this soft and unexpected caress. Seeing that Finch did not seem to understand, the agent explained with a shrug. "She took the first thing that came to hand."

Finch's body stiffened with a contained rage in front of so much nonchalance. Was Reese not aware that people were fond of him and suffered to see him hurt? He said angrily, "And you call that some scratches?!"

If John was surprised by this very unusual burst from his boss, he did not let it show. He just shrugged, answering, "These are the risks of the job. I knew what to expect when I accepted it."

Finch tensed at the mention of his warning as he had tried to convince him to follow him on his crusade four years ago. With brusque and nervous gestures indicating his anger, he opened the emergency bag and withdrew what was needed to care for his partner. He soaked a sterile compress with alcohol and began to clean the wounds.

But as he passed the cotton over the lacerations, he noticed his companion tense and groan in pain. He inwardly cursed his brutality. It was not because he was unhappy that he had to make his agent pay the price. He therefore endeavored to put aside his rancor, and resumed his care more gently.

"You take your life so lightly," murmured the computer scientist, removing the excess blood around the wounds.

Reese chuckled before answering with cunning, clumsily trying to relax the atmosphere. "I don't need to worry, you do enough for two."

Finch kept silent while swallowing the sharp remark he had on the tip of his tongue. Once clean, he placed a small amount of antiseptic ointment on the wounds and gently massaged the bruised skin to allow it to penetrate.

With a closed expression, frowning, mouth pinched, Finch was upset. Displeased that his agent cared so little about his injuries and his life as a rule. Displeased to see that his own gaze drifted inexorably on this beautiful torso, that his hands were occupied a little too much with his flat stomach. Displeased to take pleasure in the cure.

For the necessity of the care, Harold had his face several inches from his agent. It would be so easy for him to get close enough to put his lips on his skin, just to taste the flavor. As if hypnotized by the disturbing sight of his pale hand on that tanned skin and intoxicated by his characteristic masculine scent, a mixture of powder and coffee, Finch once again brought his face closer to Reese's belly. While he was busy dressing his wounds, the computer scientist was fighting against the irrepressible urge that he wanted to kiss this skin, as much to satisfy his own desire as to erase the pain that his partner had to experience, a bit like a mother kissing the scratch of her child to comfort him.

But the thoughts of the recluse were much less innocent. He wanted a lot more than kissing the bruised skin of his agent. He wanted to protect him, to cherish him, to love him. Letting his thoughts gently drift into a world where he could give free rein to his fantasies, Finch imperceptibly let his lips approach but his gesture was abruptly interrupted by an unexpected reaction from Reese that gave him the effect of a cold shower. The latter tensed and put a hand on his boss's to repel him unceremoniously. The computer specialist threw himself back abruptly as if he had just been burned.

"Leave it, Finch, I'll take a shower and change clothes. I'll finish the treatment myself, " the agent announced sharply, lowering his arm, ending the treatment.

Without waiting for his boss's response, the agent took his torn clothes and made his way quickly to the bathroom. Cheeks red with confusion, the computer specialist remained frozen a moment, as troubled by his attitude as by that of his partner. He put the ointment tube and compresses back in the case with mechanical gestures. Once finished, Finch closed his eyes and leaned his head on the glass of the subway car, trying to slow down the frantic beat of his heart.

 _What's wrong with me?!_ he thought bitterly.

But the ringing of the phone put an end to his thoughts. Finch jumped up and limped toward the station's wall to pick up the handset of the old phone that was embedded in it.

A cold, mechanical voice announced a series of words. Harold pulled out his notebook and pen from his pocket to note down the Machine's directions. Once the message was noted, he hung up and went to his office. He pursed his lips, annoyed at the thought of having to send John back to the field again when he had just returned from a mission, as injured as he was.

But hey, a life was at stake. Finch sat down in front of his screens and entered the directions into his computer. After a few seconds of research, a photograph appeared and the identity of their new Number: Livia Edwood. The computer scientist took a sip of his tea, now cold, and began to collect as much information about their new target.

As the recluse gradually regained his composure in his routine, John strove to regain composure. He carefully closed the bathroom door and leaned against it for a long time. With panting breath, a hand still clenched on the handle, he struggled to recover his spirits. His skin was burning but it was not because of his injuries but rather because of his partner.

That was exactly what he feared, which led him to refuse to let Harold look at his wounds. To put his bare chest before him, to feel his eyes examine him, his hands on his body, his face a few inches from his skin, his breath caressing him... It was too much. His body had reacted without him being able to control it. To his torment, John, who could withstand the most painful and perverse tortures, had only managed to hold out a few minutes against the delicate care dealt by his partner. Unable to bear it, he had decided to leave before his discomfort became too visible.

Now, alone in the bathroom, John was trying to calm down by breathing deeply to slow the heavy beats of his heart. After a few minutes, he found a semblance of serenity and could not help but laugh at the situation. What irony! He, the agent who was always sure of himself and in control, the cold blooded killer, was totally helpless against the marks of innocent attention from his boss. He was so helpless against Finch that he found his salvation only in flight. Tragic for a former soldier.

He finished undressing, tossed his last clothes into a corner of the room and entered the shower. His skin and his nerves were always overheated by the too-intimate contact of his boss, so he opted for a cold shower. Turning the tap towards the blue side, the agent was instantly seized by the icy water that poured over him. After a minute of this radical treatment to extinguish the fire of desire that his companion had unconsciously ignited in him, he soon began to shiver with cold. He cut the jet, took one of the hanging towels nearby, and left the shower. He quickly dried himself and tied the towel around his hips.

"Damn it, my clothes," he swore between his teeth, realizing that in his confusion he had failed to take spares.

He opened the door carefully and noticed on the floor there was a suit, a shirt, and clean underwear, neatly folded.

 _Finch..._

The agent smiled tenderly.

 _How to not love him?_

Everything about him was remarkable: his intelligence, his culture, his humour, his generosity, his sensitivity, his strength, his weaknesses. Reese leaned over to pick up his belongings and then went back to the bathroom. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, he began to dress, gradually regaining the assurance, calm and nonchalance appropriate for the Man in the Suit.

A few minutes later, the agent left the bathroom fresh and available. Passing his hand carelessly through his damp hair, he stumbled across the station and headed for the train car where Finch, sitting at his computer, was apparently working. He entered the car and noticed a new photograph taped on the glass above the monitors.

"A new number, Finch?" he asked formally while examining the portrait of the blonde girl.

"Yes, Mr. Reese," said the computer scientist without taking his eyes off his screens, "it's Livia Edwood, a twenty-eight-year-old woman who has been living in New York since the end of her studies three years ago. After graduation, she was hired by Gamesoft, a video game company, as a programmer. She has only her mother who lives in Colorado, and seems to have very few friends. In fact, she's not present on social networks, so for the moment I haven't had access to any other personal information."

The more John listened to his boss, the more nervous he felt. Once the explanations were finished, he asked in a tone a little too abrupt, "You plan to go to the field?"

"It's clear that this environment would have suited me perfectly, but the company fears industrial espionage and has locked its workforce. However, they are looking for a new security agent today. I have already sent your resume. Detective Riley needs to make some extra money. I will not be surprised if you are contacted during the day. Try to be up for your job interview," warned the computer scientist, a mischievous smile on the lips.

Reese had suddenly relaxed when he learned that his boss was going to stay safe in their lair. Since Samaritan had come into service, the agent was very anxious every time Finch had to go out, either to live under the identity of Professor Whistler or for the purposes of a mission. Reassured, he returned his smile, his heart overflowing with tenderness. God, he loved him! For him, he would be able to pick up the moon.


	2. Such is taken for belief to take

The Weight of Darkness  
by RochIle17

First delay, school obligations...

* * *

As Finch had predicted, Gamesoft's recruiters were quick to contact Reese for a job interview. It must be said that his CV had something to fan their interest. The genius had known well how to mix fiction and reality. Who could refuse a former military and current police officer in New York to work part time as a security guard in their company? The interview had been a pure formality and John had started his service the next day.

Wearing a navy blue uniform quite close to those of the security forces for which he worked and a cap fitted on his head, the agent was carefully walking behind the home office of the start-up. Armed with a small caliber pistol and a metal detector, his role could not be simpler: he had to control all the comings and goings in the company. With a kind of jaded professionalism, he checked the badges of the employees and the identities of the visitors while recovering personal electronic objects in order to limit as much as possible the risks of industrial espionage.

"Finch, do you hear me?" he asked, to make sure the link with his boss was operational.

The computer scientist's answer came in a second but his voice seemed distant and distorted by very unusual interference.

"With difficulty, Mr. Reese. I am amazed by all these security measures. Gamesoft is certainly a high tech company, but a rather modest size."

John shared the amazement of his partner. Once hired, the man thought he had done the hard part. A serious mistake! As soon as his position of security guard began, he had been taken to a basement room without windows or ventilation. Before he could go in, he had to put aside his mobile phone and the USB stick Finch had given him to retrieve the computer data from their Number. Slightly nervous because this practice reminded him keenly of what he had done when he was at the CIA, John was invited to sit on the only chair in the room. He had waited patiently for the chief of security, Timothy Gold, to join him and then quietly listened to him explain the security policy of the company.

And he was at least... paranoid. He was well aware that this place was brewing millions, that it was potentially sensitive and particularly competitive. All the same, the list of bans and precautions to enter the premises of Gamesoft was impressive: all devices connected to visitors were confiscated and kept in a locker at the reception, and staff laptops were carefully redacted at the end of each day. It went without saying that no employee could enter or exit with a USB stick or hard drive, and finally, the icing on the cake, the building was a huge Faraday cage!

Although John had picked up his phone after Mr. Gold's briefing, it was unusable between the walls of the company. Fortunately for him, his position at the reception, just in front of the front door, allowed him to keep a tenuous link with his boss. Nevertheless, the communication was so bad that the agent was struggling to understand what his boss was telling him, his voice was so distorted.

"Me too, Finch. I didn't see anything that could justify such measures," murmured John, taking care not to be noticed by his colleagues; just as wary of the man who had just trained him to the politics of the house.

"Have you spotted our Number?" the computer scientist asked impatiently.

Sitting in front of his monitors, the recluse had, thanks to the network of the city's surveillance cameras, a stunning view of the facade of the building that housed Gamesoft. The building did not look good. It was a red brick, three-story town building on Twelfth Avenue across from the Hudson River. The open front door allowed him to see Reese, who was standing behind the front desk. Finch was worried. These security measures seemed to him totally disproportionate, and above all, did not allow him to be in constant contact with his agent. To know that John was alone in this potentially dangerous environment did not tell him anything that was worth it. He had a bad feeling and wanted to expedite this matter as soon as possible, in order to resume their somewhat more tranquil routine.

In the end, their tranquillity was quite relative, because since Samaritan had been put in service, the two men had to put on a front: their new lives of criminal investigator and teacher; but also and always, their missions. Because, despite everything, the Machine continued to send them numbers regularly, to the computer scientist's despair. He would've liked to be able to breathe a little, and especially to allow John to give himself a few moments of rest.

After passing the metal detector over a new visitor, John whispered, "Not yet, I'm waiting for the rotation with the second team to get access to the office floors. And on your side, Finch, did you find any new information about Livia Edwood?"

"Nothing very interesting. Her father died of a heart attack five years ago. Livia financially helps her mother by sending her a portion of her salary each month. She has a subscription card at the municipal library, the loyalty card of her neighborhood cinema. In addition, she takes ballroom dance classes every Tuesday and participates in the distribution of meals to the homeless every Friday."

Reese tried to hide his surprise at hearing the list of all the very honorable actions of their new Number. This young woman must have a fault! He asked at random, "A boyfriend?"

"Evidently not," Finch sighed, as frustrated as his agent at finding no noticeable feature in Miss Edwood's life.

"This woman is a saint," John concluded as he looked impatiently at his watch, eager to approach this model of virtue.

"I might sooner find a job-related danger," Finch continued, studying the new information he had just discovered about the start-up.

"Meaning?" Reese asked, glancing at his colleague who was watching the elevators.

"Well, according to their tax return this year, Gamesoft made a million dollars in profit."

Reese's eyes widened as he heard such a colossal figure for a company of this size. According to Finch, the company had only about twenty employees. "How can they generate so much money?"

Finch studied the details of the accounts before answering. "In fact, Gamesoft is not just a video game design company; it also creates educational software for schools. It's the contracts with the government that provide it with most of its income."

"This would explain why it needs so many guards and such draconian security measures," commented the agent.

"It is certain that working for the government can be risky," Finch couldn't help but add as he thought back to their respective woes when they themselves worked, one for the CIA and the other, indirectly, for the government.

Reese smiled at the hint but did not take it. He considered the affair with Mark Snow and Kara Stanton as ancient history. When Finch was in contact, the agent had learned not to look back, but rather towards the future. Focusing on his mission, he asked, "But who can threaten a programmer of educational software like Livia Edwood to life without history?"

"It's up to you to find out, Mr. Reese," the computer scientist sighed again, exasperated at being once again relegated to the rank of a mere spectator.

"I'm counting on it," replied the agent with conviction, absolutely confident in his skills.

"How do you plan to do that?" asked Finch, surprised by the assurance of his agent.

"In the old way Finch, as in the good old days: Establish contact and win the trust of the target to extract information."

"Very well," the computer scientist concluded flatly, aware that everything now depended on the approach technique that Reese held.

"For your part, try to find out more about this mysterious company," suggested John, who, despite the poor quality of the line, perceived the tension in his partner.

"I already started digging on that side. I gathered some digital information on Howard Dukes, Livia's boss. He founded Gamesoft in 2009 after leaving Berkeley. He seems rather liked by his employees. I didn't find anything that could confirm that he is the origin or the target of any danger."

John was not surprised by his boss's response but he didn't have the opportunity to tell him of his admiration via a remark halfway between irony and couched flirtation, because his colleague interrupted by putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey John, are you coming?" he asked, pointing to the elevators behind them.

"I'm coming," Reese told him. But before following the other man, he turned to whisper quietly to his boss, "Finch, I have to go upstairs. I will not be reachable for a while."

"Understood, be careful," the computer scientist answered spontaneously. But this time, this phrase had nothing to do with the purely formal warnings he was used to giving. He was really worried about leaving his partner in this ultra-secure bunker that made him think more of a mousetrap than a computer company.

John couldn't hold back a smile as he recognized his boss' habitual phrase. He answered without thinking, to end the communication: "Always." With that, he went to his colleague who was already waiting in the elevator. When the car doors opened on the second floor, Reese discovered a gigantic sterile room where a dozen computer scientists worked. The agent swept the place with his expert eye, absorbing its very particular atmosphere.

The thing that shocked Reese the most was the calm. Only the sound of the keyboards broke the silence. No telephones ringing, no chatting between colleagues, no printer or photocopier noise was disturbing the tranquility of the place. All the employees seemed absorbed in their work, and stared at the screens of their computers as if hypnotized.

 _What a strange atmosphere_ , thought John, so stunned by the scene that he stayed for a clandestine moment in front of the now-closed door of the elevator, _it's almost like a monastery whose monks have made a vow of silence_.

Like all start-ups, Gamesoft had organized its offices into open-space areas. They were a privilege, supposedly to facilitate exchanges between collaborators, but in reality it was a rather convenient and cheap way to monitor employees. As a result, Reese easily spotted their Number. He walked down the aisle after his colleague and glanced at Livia Edwood. She was sitting in front of three monitors. With headphoned on her ears, she typed with impressive dexterity lines of code that were incomprehensible to the layman. She looked much younger than her twenty-eight years. Round glasses on her nose, hair pulled together in a ponytail, she wore worn jeans, a fashionable T-shirt and sneakers that made her look like a student just out of adolescence. Reese could not help but notice a certain resemblance to Finch. He smiled, thinking he might have found his female alter-ego.

John wandered discreetly among the work islands, glancing cautiously at the screens to spot any clue. But he had to admit that the lines of code looked like Chinese to him. He then turned his attention to their Number. Very diligent, she rarely lifted her eyes from her screens, taking only one break during the morning to prepare a cup of tea. John was beginning to despair of being able to approach her today as the young woman paid no attention either to others or to her surroundings.

At noon, Livia finally broke away from her computer. She put on her denim jacket, took her purse, and left her post to head for the elevator. John took the opportunity to inspect her cubicle. No longer having a USB key, the agent simply searched her desk, flipping through the files that were left around there and looking in the drawers for information that could identify a possible threat. But he came up with nothing. He took some papers, however, out of conscience. If he had no idea of the significance of these lines, Finch would know how to decipher them.

Taking care not to be spotted by the various security cameras that criss-crossed the huge room, Reese slipped the papers into the inside pocket of his uniform. Then he also decided to take a break for lunch. The premises closed between noon and two so the security guards had no reason to stay at their posts.

Once outside, the agent looked for where Livia could go to eat. Rapidly, he spotted several employees, including the young woman, queuing in front of a food truck located nearby. John stood just behind her, took out his cell phone from the pocket of his pants and after a few manipulations, paired it with that of the girl.

"It's good, Finch, I'm connected to her cell phone. I will now try a direct approach," the agent informed as discreetly possible while waiting for his turn.

"Understood," said the computer scientist, relieved to hear his partner's voice again.

"Have you found something new about our Number's employers?"

"Not having access to the company's internal servers, I tried to establish the list of employees through my facial recognition software, but that of its customers is more difficult to obtain."

"And how do you plan to do it?" Reese asked, curious to know his genius boss' ploy to know who Gamesoft was doing business with.

"As I can't access the names of the company's customers, I will reverse-engineer the problem. Thanks to government tenders, I found the list of all the companies that the Ministry of Education deals with. So I can find out which Gamesoft software sold to the state and who led the negotiations."

"Judicious," answered Reese, impressed.

"But tedious," Finch sighed as he described the impressive government listing.

Reese did not have time to answer because Livia was about to order. She pointed to a sandwich with raw vegetables but hesitated a long time on the choice of her dessert. In the end, she chose a pastry and then ordered a glass of tea. The agent smiled. He had just spotted what was for the moment the only defect in their Number: gluttony. Although one of the seven deadly sins, he doubted that was sufficient motive to kill her.

Once served, the young woman turned around, holding her paper bag in one hand and her steaming cup in the other. But while she was preparing to return to the start-up's offices, John voluntarily placed himself on her path. With her head down to put her wallet in her purse, she struck him violently, releasing her clutch in shock and spilling her hot drink on Reese's jacket and shirt.

"Oh, sorry, I'm so clumsy!" she exclaimed, red with confusion, contemplating and shocked by the damage.

John gave a tense smile as the hot liquid ran through his clothes to lick his skin. Even though the accident was deliberate, he had absolutely not expected to scald himself. But in the end, the agent was satisfied because his ruse seemed more realistic. He tried to reassure her. "It's nothing," he said, a tense smile on his lips, as the young woman started to blot his soaked clothes with paper towels to prevent the stain from spreading.

"I'm really sorry, if I can do anything to fix the damage," Livia politely suggested, obviously upset by the incident.

The agent's eyes started to sparkle. His trap had worked as expected: approach - make contact - connect with the target... As in the old days. But he had to admit that he preferred his new boss to his old ones by far.

"How about inviting me to have a drink? Yours is upset and I can't order one for myself since I have to go back to the locker room to change," the man replied, displaying his most charming smile.

"Oh..." murmured the young lady, surprised but also flattered by his proposal, judging by the pretty pink hue of her cheeks. After a few seconds of reflection, Livia returned his smile. "Okay, after all, I owe you a drink."

"Perfect! I will wait for you after my shift, in front of the building's entrance," suggested the agent, satisfied to have reached his goal so easily.

Livia nodded knowingly and went back to the building with a light, nervous, and feverish step at the thought of spending the evening with such an attractive man. John, meanwhile, returned to the security agents' locker room to change. Taking off his jacket, his tie, and then unbuttoning his soaked shirt, he took advantage of these minutes of solitude to inform his boss:

"It's all good, Finch. I managed to get an appointment with our Number. I'll be able to get closer to her and question her."

"I heard."

The agent was surprised by his partner's very concise and dry answer. Putting on a clean shirt, he asked, suddenly anxious, "Is there a problem, Finch?"

The computer scientist bit his lip, aware of having spoken a little too harshly to his agent. But he couldn't mask the sourness in his voice, as he was uncomfortable that John had used his charm to seduce Livia. He had bad enough memories of his former agent Dillinger, who tended to complete all his missions in bed with the female Numbers he was supposed to protect, and he didn't at all appreciate that method.

But in reality, more than the disapproval of his partner's method of approach, what Finch felt was indeed jealousy. He would have given everything to be the object of so much attention, the target of this embered gaze, the subject of his compliments...

"Harold?"

Reese's worried voice brought him brutally back down to earth. Harold adjusted his chair, reflexively pushed his glasses over his nose and cleared his throat before answering, "No, I still haven't found anything."

"Tell me as soon as you get something."

"Understood," the computer scientist answered mechanically before ending the conversation, his attention suddenly grabbed by disturbing information found on the government listing he had been studying for several hours already.

The rest of the day was very, if not too quiet for John. The latter spent the longest six hours of his life, roaming like a lost soul among the offices of programmers, designers, and other computer scientists; or verifying the identities of the only two appointments of Howard Dukes that afternoon.

At six o'clock sharp, Reese was in the dressing room taking off his uniform to put on his civilian clothes, relieved at the end of his seemingly endless day's work. After hiding his SIG-Sauer P226R on his belt, John felt immediately better. He eagerly stepped out of the building and leaned against the brick facade to wait for his rendez-vous. He took the opportunity to contact his partner. "Anything new, Finch?"

"Perhaps. I noticed that Gamesoft had narrowly avoided filing for bankruptcy last year thanks to contracts with the government."

"What's the link with our case?"

"I don't know yet, but for lack of better, I will trace this angle."

"Understood," John replied before turning off his earwig as Livia exited the building and walked over to meet him.

Reese watched her approach in silence, a smile on his lips. She stood in front of him and hesitated a moment before murmuring, embarrassed, "I don't even know your name."

"John. What about you?"

"Livia."

"Delighted, Livia," said the agent in his soft, seductive voice. "Are we going?"

"Okay, I know a nice bar not far from here," said the young woman as she pointed to the end of the street.

"I trust you."

Livia smiled at him before turning around and starting to walk, Reese following in her footsteps. The journey took place in an awkward silence. The young woman seemed to be a very gentle and shy person. Head down, she carefully avoided looking at him, but her red cheeks reflected her excitement. She seemed to be under his spell and the agent was willing to enjoy it. After a five-minute walk through the busy streets of Manhattan, the two young people arrived at a trendy café.

It was a lively pub where dozens of white-collar workers were trying to unwind after a hard day's work. The music was loud and the atmosphere smoky. Reese found that this place didn't really fit with the calm and clear personality of their Number. A waiter led them to an isolated table in the back of the bar. The agent sat down facing of the entrance, to monitor the comings and goings of the customers, and close to an emergency exit, to be able to escape quickly in case of danger. Perfect, he thought as he took off his jacket and put it on the bench next to him.

Once they were settled, the same server returned, his notebook in hand, to take their orders.

"A beer," said John before inviting the young woman to do the same.

"Lemonade," she said in her thin voice. Livia watched as the boy moved away, then said, blushing, as if to justify herself, "I don't like alcohol."

She really is perfect, the agent thought as he responded with a tender smile, "It's to your honour."

Livia blushed again and asked, "You're new to Gamesoft?

"Yes, it's my first day."

"I said to myself..."

The girl's sentence was suspended while the waiter put their drinks on the table.

"You were saying?" asked John, curious to know the end of her comment.

The young woman played with her straw for a long time before answering in a very small voice, "I was telling myself... that I would have noticed you already otherwise."

John was amused by the spontaneity of this confession and raised his glass to toast her. "So, to a long collaboration," he proclaimed with feigned solemnity in order to relax the atmosphere.

Livia imitated him while answering, "I hope so with all my heart."

They sipped their drinks in silence, John gazing at his neighbor who modestly lowered her eyes. Not only did she appear charming, refreshing with naivety, innocence, and spontaneity, but up close, he noticed that she was also very pretty with her cheekbones and nose dotted with freckles, her full lips and her shy smile. He therefore was very surprised that the young woman had no man in her life. He had to dig on that side. Never had he had a Number so smooth to watch. But he knew from experience that one must always be wary of appearances.

After setting down his mug of beer, John decided to learn more about the young woman by asking seemingly innocent questions that would allow him to learn more about her... at least he hoped. "You've been working for Gamesoft for a long time?"

"Yes, it's been three years now."

"The atmosphere is extremely studious; I would rather have found happy geeks," continued John, thinking back to the crazy and eccentric atmosphere of 'Fetch and Retrieve' where one of their previous Numbers, Anna Mueller, worked.

"Yes, I definitely prefer this atmosphere to that of last year."

"Oh? Why this?" Reese asked, taking another sip of his beer.

"Well, a year ago, the company was moribund because our sales weren't taking off. But fortunately, unexpected contracts with the state miraculously saved us," explained the young woman, eyes sparkling with joy, visibly very relieved of the government's rescue of the start-up.

"You seem quite attached to your business," Reese said, replacing his glass.

"Very. I would do anything for it," murmured the young woman gently, calmly, almost coldly.

This subtle change of attitude did not escape the former operative who frowned, questioning this last comment dropped in mid-word. "That is to say?" he asked, examining the speaker with more acuity.

Livia was watching him with her big blue eyes, now no longer innocent. On the contrary, the young woman suddenly seemed very sure of herself, sitting very straight in her chair, her smile widening as the agent's discomfort grew. Reese had a bad feeling. He felt bad, both physically and psychologically. His confusion did not escape the girl, who asked in a soft voice:

"Do you feel all right, Mr. Riley?"

An icy chill ran through John's body as he heard his name. He did not remember telling it to her. How did she learn it? Had he made a lapse? Had his cover been blown?

"How do you know... my... name?" he stammered with difficulty, his mouth suddenly becoming pasty, and a very unpleasant metallic taste filling his palate.

Livia's smile widened. She leaned over the table to whisper, "I know a lot about you. I know you aren't the person you pretend to be."

John's eyes widened. His suspicions were confirmed. He had been taken for a ride! "You... drugged... me..." he said painfully as he glanced around for an escape route.

But they were in a secluded corner of the bar and no one was paying attention to them. Miss Edwood took another sip of her lemonade before answering cynically, "That's right. It was so easy. You've so disappointed me. Knowing your skills, I expected a little more fighting on your part."

"I... I..." Reese stammered, more and more disoriented. His mind, paralyzed by the drugs, was struggling to analyze the situation. His body, suddenly very heavy, no longer obeyed him. His vision blurred, his gestures lacked coordination and he had trouble swallowing because of his thick tongue. He groped awkwardly to try to grab the weapon at his belt, but this simple movement provoked a violent headache and vertigo. Suddenly, everything started to whirl around him. Trying not to panic, John tried to get up to leave the bar by the emergency door just behind him, but his legs sagged under his weight and he collapsed.

Livia stood up and turned to nod to the waiter who approached, accompanied by a man in a suit. She knelt down and gazed at Reese, who, prone on the floor, gradually sank into unconsciousness. His blue eyes were glassy and expressionless, drops of sweat beaded on his forehead and she could see his pulse beat in his neck just above the open collar of his shirt. She ran a hand through his damp salt-and-pepper hair in a falsely soothing gesture before bending to whisper in his ear.

"Come on, come on, Detective; it would be unfortunate if you hurt yourself. We still need you."


	3. The trap

The Weight of Darkness  
by RocheIle17  
 _  
This Chapter 3 is one of the turning points of the story. It reveals some mysteries and poses others (of course). I hope I'm not mistaken in the timeline (but in my defense, the POI timeline is not simple). For Ziva, the stories that come out of my imagination do overflow a little, resulting from excessive consumption of series, movies, and mangas (and perhaps a disturbed brain).  
_

* * *

As soon as he hung up, Finch turned his attention back to the detail he had just spotted a few seconds before. Committing to memory the name and signature at the bottom of one of the contracts between Gamesoft and the government, he looked for other commitments the company had with the state in order to confirm or deny its veracity. After reducing the size of the pages, he aligned them on his screen to better compare them. He had seen correctly! The same person had signed contracts with the start-up on behalf of the federal government.

"That's what I thought..." muttered the computer scientist, recognizing the name that appeared on each of the sheets.

"So, Harry, are we talking to ourselves?"

The recluse started before swiveling his chair to glare at Root, who was walking through the subway station with an apple in her hand.

"Have you all sworn to make me die of a heart attack?" he mumbled, studying the young woman as she entered the train car.

"I try to be at the level of my illustrious partners," she said as she settled on one of the worn benches. "Besides, where is the big guy?"

"He's on a mission," said Finch, superbly ignoring the young woman's jab. "How's Miss Shaw?"

If Finch was hearing from the young slayer, it was because she was worried. Indeed, since being kidnapped by Samaritan's agents, Shaw had had some difficulty getting her bearings back on the team. The many experiences they had forced upon her had deeply affected her, even though she had argued the opposite. She also felt a strong sense of guilt whenever her partners crossed the rival AI's agents.

"It's fine... She's recovering slowly. She's full of impatience and would rather resume missions as soon as possible. I can't stop her," explained the young woman with a tense smile, a sign of her discomfort and helplessness against the demons that gnawed at her companion. If Root had been more than relieved to see Shaw escape from Samaritan's clutches and return to the team, she was nevertheless very worried about her mental state. Her recovery was going to be slow and laborious.

"I imagine perfectly well," commented the recluse absently as he browsed the biographical file that was displayed on his screen.

"Who is it?" asked the young woman before tucking into her fruit heartily, curious to know what the genius was working on.

"Senator Ross H. Garrison."

Here was the one that was dealing with Gamesoft. Finch remembered him very well. When Vigilance had kidnapped him, with Control and Greer, this politician had also been sitting in the accused dock in the mock trial organized by the terrorist organization. Why was he so interested in the start-up?

Root, meanwhile, froze. She put her apple down on the bench and stood up. "Is there any particular reason for you to seek information on this man?" she asked in a hushed voice as she approached Finch.

"I don't know yet, but his name is associated with all contracts between the government and Gamesoft, a computer company in which our new Number works."

Root grabbed a chair from an alcove and brought it to the recluse's office, her eyes not leaving the screen.

Amazed and vaguely worried by this change of attitude, Finch asked, "You know him?"

"Not I, but our common friend, yes," replied the hacker, still enigmatic.

"Meaning?" he asked, slightly nervous.

"Although he denied it to the media, Senator Ross Garrison was in charge of the Northern Lights program."

"He is one of the few who knows of the Machine's existence," murmured the recluse, more and more worried by the turn of the conversation.

"I can't say that he has been unemployed since the end of the program, but it even looks like..." But Root did not finish her sentence, as her attention was suddenly diverted by the cold and disjointed voice of the Machine that reached her directly in her ear.

With a pounding heart, Finch waited anxiously for his creation and her Analog Interface to complete their exchange. It was never a very good sign that the AI intervened spontaneously in a case that, at first glance, did not concern it directly. His bad feeling was confirmed when he saw Samantha Groves's beautiful face fall. As she listened silently to the instructions of their mutual friend, the young woman could not stop her gaze from drifting towards her partner. The latter could read in the brown eyes a multitude of clashing emotions: surprise, worry, and perhaps even anguish.

"When was your last conversation with John?" she asked suddenly.

Finch glanced quickly at his computer's clock before answering. "About half an hour, why?" He suddenly became very tense by this change of subject initiated by the Machine. Harold was all the more troubled that the young woman was not accustomed to being worried about John. On the contrary. She always gave the impression of being at best, indifferent, and at worst, ironically contemptuous of him. In any case, she had never seemed to care for him, believing that he could very well get himself out of all situations alone. This unheard-of anxiety on her part had the effect of stressing the computer scientist even more.

"The Machine thinks that Samaritan is hiding behind Gamesoft."

Finch had the impression of being struck by lightning at the mention of the other AI. "What do you mean?" he asked in a voice trembling with anguish.

Root pointed to the monitors in front of them and two snapshots from surveillance cameras appeared as if by magic. "The magic of an open system," she murmured in a dreamy voice, always so admiring of the power that had been finally released from the Machine since its rebirth.

Finch, meanwhile, felt nothing but a cold terror creep into his veins as he watched with a mixture of dread and helplessness the images that the Machine showed them. On one, Senator Garrison could be seen exiting a government vehicle in front of the National Gallery of Art in Washington, and on the other, Greer descending from another vehicle at the back of the building.

"It would appear that Garrison met Greer at the National Gallery of Art in Washington on April 5, 2014. Even though they took the precaution of turning off the surveillance cameras inside the museum, those in the city were fortunately active," explained the young woman, examining the two images carefully. "Look at the date and time," she said, pointing to the numbers at the bottom of the screen.

Indeed, Finch noticed that Greer entered the museum by a back door around 11:00 AM and Senator Garrison by the main door at 11:11 AM the same day. But it was not so much this encounter that alerted the recluse, but rather the date. And suddenly, he realized! "One day before Samaritan was put into service."

"Exactly," Root confirmed. "I don't think it's a coincidence, nor does the Machine."

"If Garrison is behind the commissioning of Samaritan, it might be that his strong interest in Gamesoft is also related to the AI."

"The Machine thinks that the company can provide programs to sharpen its surveillance or achieve a more ambitious goal."

"To control the educational system of the country..."

"And the brains of the pretty little blond heads that constitute its future," Root concluded.

"I must warn John immediately!" exclaimed Finch, abruptly aware of their mission's change in dimension. It was no longer a simple Number that Reese had to watch. The problem was that he still didn't know if their Number was Samaritan's target or if she was one of its agents. Anyway, the danger was much greater than expected and he had to inform John.

But like a few days prior, the computer scientist was taken directly to his agent's voicemail, indicating that his cellphone was either off, or off the network.

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" Finch murmured, tapping his desk nervously. He decided to change his strategy and use the city's surveillance camera network to locate him. But as he was about to type a command on his keyboard, Root interrupted him by putting a hand on his wrist.

"It's useless, he's in a white zone."

Finch's blood froze in his veins. The clusters of suspicion were too numerous to be mere coincidences. Not only was their Number working for a company whose relationship with Samaritan was more than likely, the Gamesoft headquarters was a veritable fortress, and now John and Livia were in an area devoid of surveillance cameras. All this plainly smelled like a trap.

For the first time in a long time, Finch was overwhelmed by the situation. He had well approached the problem from all directions, but found no solution to warn his agent of the danger without being detected by Samaritan's radar.

It was then that Root took things in hand. "Reese's phone might be out of reach, but the Machine might have access to its history. We'll know what was said between them just before his phone was cut."

As soon as the explanation was complete, and as if to illustrate its interface's proposal, the Machine took control of Finch's computer. Two windows appeared on the recluse's monitors: one showing a map of New York, and the other an audio file.

"According to the Machine, John and Livia are in this area near his workplace, in Hell's Kitchen."

Harold listened with a distracted ear to his neighbour's comments; he was focused on the audio file, eager to know the progress of the rendez-vous before his agent's cellphone went out. Despite the fear that hadn't left him since he realized the nature of the threat hovering over them, Finch was trying to put a brave face on. He used all his coolness to stay calm, but he had the painful feeling that his heart was threatening to explode with every beat.

Finally, as if the Machine was trying to shorten his ordeal, the audio file started. A sound of rather poor quality pervaded the car. Despite the music and the muffled buzz of the bar customers, the two computer scientists could hear the conversation between John and Livia very clearly.

 _Have you been working for Gamesoft for a long time?_

 _Yes, it's been three years now._

 _The atmosphere is extremely studious; I would rather have found happy geeks._

Root and Finch listened attentively to the words exchanged between the agent and his target, on the lookout for the slightest hint. For the moment, nothing exceptional emerged from this uninteresting chatter. As expected, John wanted to know more about their Number to determine where the danger might originate. He had particularly focused on the young woman's employment, as Finch had suggested to him a few minutes earlier.

But imperceptibly, Finch felt more and more uncomfortable. Something was wrong with this discussion. Was it the subtle change of Livia's tone? Her quite extraordinary devotion to her company? Still, Harold was increasingly worried. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard Miss Edwood's soft voice become as cold as metal as she declared:

 _I know a lot about you. I know you aren't the person you pretend to be._

Finch felt once again as if he had been struck by lightning. He stiffened in his seat and his hands clutched his desk like a life buoy. The rest of the recording was a real torture for the recluse, who listened impotently as his agent stammered pathetically:

 _You... drugged... me..._

Eyes on the screen, Finch could feel a cold sweat running down his spine as he heard his agent's long agony before he lost consciousness. His heart missed a beat as he heard the thud of a body falling to the ground.

Realizing the ordeal that her friend was enduring, Root gently put her hand on Finch's in a gesture of comfort. Since the abduction of Shaw and her miraculous return, the young woman had become very protective of the team members and jealously guarded them, including Reese and Fusco. Because behind her teasing and her little jabs, she had learned to appreciate the qualities and faults of each and had somewhat revised her concept of "bad code".

She also knew that Finch and John felt much more than just friendship toward each other. She might have been deaf in one ear but was certainly not blind. She had noticed the looks, the tender gestures, the more or less voluntary touches. She understood so much what Harold felt at the moment. She had experienced it a few months ago after helplessly watching what she thought was Shaw's execution.

They listened anxiously to the long silence that followed John's fall. Then, they heard footsteps and finally Livia muttering in a dangerously calm voice:

 _Come on, come on, Detective; it would be unfortunate if you hurt yourself. We still need you_.

Finch felt like the ground had opened under his feet.

 _We still need you._

What would they do with him? Immediately, his thoughts raced. He knew now what the agents of Samaritan could do to achieve their ends; it could range from intimidation to torture. And if these methods did not give the expected result, killing would pose absolutely no problem of conscience.

But Finch did not have the opportunity to yield to panic. In any case, not yet. A sound of wrinkling clothes reached them. They could not tell whether John was being searched for a tracker or dragged on the ground. Maybe both. They were quickly stunned when they heard Livia's voice reach them very distinctly:

 _I know you're listening. I have a message for you and your Machine: Samaritan greets you and tells you 'see you soon'._

Finch turned toward Root and gave her a panicked look. For the first time in a long time, the man was completely lost. The young woman squeezed her friend's hand as if to instill some courage. Despite the end of the audio recording, both partners remained silent. As stunned as they were by the recent events, together they digested all the information they had just discovered.

Suddenly, Root stiffened and turned away from her companion to listen to new instructions from the Machine. Despite the pain that tore at his heart and knotted his stomach, Finch noticed that the young woman was becoming more and more pale. She lowered her head, hiding her emotions behind her heavy brown hair that streamed down her shoulders.

"What's she saying?" he asked in a trembling voice, eager to hear his creation's plan. He was well aware that everything now rested on her: on the information she had collected, analyzed and cross-referenced, on her analyses and hypotheses. He, who had always believed in his free will as a man ahead of the cold mathematical decisions of the AI, was so desperate that he waited like the Messiah for the decision of his new God.

But when Root looked up, he read the confusion in her brown eyes. After a few seconds of unbearable silence, she murmured in a trembling voice, "She doesn't know. She says to wait. She thinks Samaritan needs John and won't kill him... not right away."

Harold had expected anything but that. The Machine was also powerless against Samaritan's plan. Slowly he rested his elbows on his desk and then put his head in his hands, lost and anxious at the thought of losing John.

Samantha put a hand on her partner's shoulder, sharing his pain. But she was equally ashamed and terribly uncomfortable because she hadn't been completely honest with Harold. But for the moment, the man was not yet ready to hear what his creation had confided. She preferred to keep quiet and awkwardly tried to comfort him by gently rubbing his back in a soothing gesture.

But against all odds, Finch did not seem to sink into absolute despair or utter apathy. No. His head in his hands, his eyes closed, his brows furrowed, he was calm and appeared to be thinking. Root could almost hear his brain working as he tried to find a solution to this Gordian knot.

 _Reflect, think, reflect..._ the man repeated to himself tirelessly.

* * *

Reese had the impression of floating in a strange limbo, lost somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, dream and reality, life and death. He had woken up several times, but despite all his efforts to keep his eyes open, the massive dose of drugs he had ingested systematically plunged him back into a coma-like sleep. Each phase of drowsiness was punctuated by ever more realistic and disturbing nightmares.

At first, he reviewed the most memorable episodes of his life. He relived the burial of his father. He watched helplessly as Jessica was killed by her husband Peter Arndt. He saw himself, a tramp and an alcoholic, staggering in the squalid streets of New York. He replayed his meeting with Finch, the times he had saved him from the claws of Root, of Vigilance, of Decima...

Then gradually, almost insensibly, his dreams became blacker, darker. It was no longer Peter who was hitting Jessica, but himself. It was no longer Root's hands that slashed Harold's palm, but his own. He once again became the CIA agent, killing terrorists or innocents in cold blood without any distinction. He relived forced interrogations in the jails of the Agency in Syria or Morocco. He found himself torturing suspects to death under the satisfied gaze of his superiors.

And like an endless litany, he could hear Kara Stanton's calm, fatalistic voice whispering in his ear.

 _We are darkness._

 _We are darkness._

 _We are darkness._

 _You are darkness._

 _You are darkness._

 _Darkness..._

Insidiously, with those words as deadly as bullets, Kara had sown the seeds of doubt in his mind. By dint of repeating that he was a killing machine, an agent of shadow ready to do all the worst work for his country, John had convinced himself that he was evil. His desertion from the CIA, the loss of Jessica, and his revenge had only confirmed this impression. These words had haunted him so much, chasing him night and day, that he had decided to commit suicide, judging his life as useless as it was dangerous... for others.

Then, everything had changed. When contacted by Finch and the Machine, he had almost managed to forget these words. At the beginning of their collaboration it had not yet been evident. His old reflexes of an ex-operator of the Agency hadn't been easy to forget. He was so used to murder, lies, torture, and violence that they were almost part of his DNA.

But that didn't count to Finch. With infinite patience, he had managed to repel the darkness that threatened to engulf him, to tame the violence that was bubbling inside him, to direct him to a just cause. The genius had convinced him to wound rather than kill, to parry rather than strike, to imprison rather than to judge. Finch, a curious mixture of fragility and strength, intelligence and doubt, had managed the feat of taming the monster created by the CIA that slumbered in him. Finch had ended up persuading him that he was a good person, a partner, and even a friend. Even if he had hoped for more, he contented himself with infinite joy...

But now, under the effect of the drugs, he plunged back into his old demons and saw himself, in his dreams, murdering Numbers rather than saving them, coldly executing Root and Shaw. But the fate he reserved for Finch was much worse.

If at first, his dream had begun like reality, what followed had been traumatic for the agent. In his nightmare, he woke up, lost, and tied to the bed of an unknown hotel room. He had heard the screams of a woman coming from the next room and had freed himself to rescue her. Once the connecting door was knocked down, instead of a woman in distress, Reese had come face to face with Finch who had calmly explained to him that the howls he had heard had come from a recording. A dull anger had seized him. He had violently shoved Finch to press him against the wall. But instead of letting go, his hands, moved by a powerful and mysterious force, had encircled his partner's fragile neck and begun to squeeze gently. John's face had been so close to Harold's that he could see the blue pupils dilating with terror behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his halting breath caressing his cheek. As he had methodically compressed the carotid artery, John could feel the vertebrae crack softly, and see his victim's face turn scarlet before he lost consciousness. After making sure that no breath was coming out of Finch's parted lips, he had relaxed his grip. The billionaire had collapsed to the ground like a disjointed puppet. Reese had contemplated for long seconds the inert body of his boss without really understanding. Then, a flash of fear had crossed his body when he realized what he had done. He then knelt down and took Harold's lifeless body, cradling him gently while crying in silence at the loss of his friend...

This last nightmare had the effect of snapping Reese out of his lethargy. The man felt the darkness that enveloped him lighten as he regained consciousness. At the price of a superhuman effort, he managed to open his eyelids for a fraction of a second. But he only discerned a vague silhouette, barely perceptible in the dim light of what looked like a hospital room. The agent concluded that he was hearing the regular rhythm of a heartbeat monitor. Exhausted by this simple gesture, he closed his eyes while trying to understand what was happening to him.

"Mr. Riley, how are you feeling?" asked a dreadfully familiar calm voice.

John reiterated his effort and this time managed to keep his eyes open for a few minutes. Everything around him was vague. The luminosity, however weak, was unbearable. He felt like his head was going to explode and his mouth was as dry as a desert. But he had to know if his fears were real or if his imagination was playing tricks on him. This voice, this particular diction and this slight British accent...

"Greer," murmured John with difficulty.

The old man standing beside his bed watched him with a smile. "Well, I see you have recovered your spirits," he said ironically.

This response had the effect of a cold shower for Reese who widened his eyes in amazement. He tried to rise but his hands and legs were hindered by huge leather bands, the same ones normally used for recalcitrant patients. His civilian clothes had been replaced by pajama pants and a white T-shirt.

"Please excuse us, but knowing your skills, we preferred to tie you... for now," Greer explained as he poured water into a plastic glass. The old man offered the goblet to John, who turned his head in a futile act of rebellion. The former head of Decima gave a little amused laugh at this bravado and placed the container on the bedside table next to the bed.

"What do you want?" John asked aggressively.

He was not used to being so helpless. He blamed himself for being taken advantage of. He had fallen into the trap set by Samaritan. But it was not his fate that worried him the most. After all, he was one of the many agents of the Machine. He was replaceable. No, his life didn't matter. But that of Finch was invaluable and he feared especially for his. He knew that Greer had nothing to do with him, he was only a vulgar pawn in the subtle chess game he had played with Finch for years. Pawns could be sacrificed. But Harold was the king, the most important piece on the chessboard. Without a king, no more game.

"Harold Finch."

The agent stiffened imperceptibly. That's what he had feared. Through him, Greer sought to reach Harold. Despite the fear that twisted his insides to the point of nausea, John remained silent.

Greer drew a chair close to the bed and settled down comfortably before explaining to him in a calm voice, "We know that you know him; it's needless to deny it, Detective Riley... or perhaps you would prefer me to call you Mr. Reese."

Despite his surprise, the agent remained impassive, as the CIA had taught him: don't show his confusion, don't disclose his weaknesses on pain of seeing the enemy exploit them. But the former MI6 member was not fooled by the maneuver and continued his insidious business of destabilization.

"But we both know that this is not your real name. Kara Stanton gave you that alias on your first mission to Hungary. I also know it's the one you've been using since you started working for the Machine."

This visibly affected Reese. How did Samaritan spot him? Root had been careful to destroy their old identities, and the blind spot she had created by putting seven of the AI servers out of order should normally have protected their new identities. Greer seemed to know everything about his life... about his real life. John was appalled. How did Samaritan's radar find him? What else did it know? Did it know where Finch's hideout was? Did it intend to destroy it in its turn? Driven by a feverish curiosity, he decided to ask for some clarification. "How did you know?"

Greer waved. The door of the room opened abruptly to let in two strangers. The first person was a nurse. She checked John's readouts, then, satisfied with the results, took the electrodes from his chest before exiting without further explanation. The second stranger was a young man in a suit carrying a laptop in his hands. He put it on a small wheeled table that originally had served to hold meals, opened it and turned it on. He then pushed the table toward Reese's bed so that he could see the screen.

Incredulous, the agent stared at the black screen for a few moments before returning his attention to Greer.

"Samaritan has been watching you for a while." As if to punctuate Greer's words, CCTV screenshots showed him walking on the streets of New York, writing reports in his 8th District office or even inspecting a crime scene. In other words, Samaritan had watched Detective John Riley.

"I must say that your friend has done a great job in creating you this new identity. Initially, Samaritan saw nothing. Then it noticed that Detective Riley crossed the path of its agents too often. After some research, it noticed that he was visiting a university professor. Imagine my surprise when I found out who Professor Whistler really was!"

New images scrolled on the screen, and Reese was more and more aware of the vise that was closing in on him. There was Finch and he sitting playing chess in a city park, walking the streets of New York with Bear. "You will not get anything from me. I have been captured before and I've never talked."

"I have no doubt about it. Finch has surrounded himself with agents who are particularly loyal and resistant to all forms of torture. We learned that from our sessions with Miss Shaw."

"So why did you kidnap me? Why not kill me directly?"

"Because you are much more useful to us alive than dead."

"What do you mean?" John asked, trying his best to hide his nervousness.

Greer leaned forward, shifting his polar blue eyes into Reese's, before announcing with an evil smile, "Because you are his weak point."

John, who had been trying to keep a brave face since the beginning of their conversation, began to feel his confidence wavering. Shivers ran down his spine, drops of sweat beaded on his temples and his heart hurt painfully in his chest. He clenched his fists, forcing his nails into his palms to try to stop the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"How so?" he asked, hiding his trembling voice as best as he could.

Greer turned to the screen and new images appeared, much more disturbing than the first ones. Finch was seen watching him with a mixture of worry and pride as he fought while on a mission. The next showed him guiding his boss to a safe place, a hand in the hollow of his back. The third photograph showed them smiling as they walked Bear in a park. Suddenly John understood. Their sideways looks, their shy smiles, their obvious complicity...

"Although Samaritan is a machine, it knows how to recognize human feelings by decrypting their behavior. And your attitudes are as limpid as crystal. You are not only partners, you are friends, very close friends. Maybe even more. In any case, Harold Finch cares about you. Just as you care about him."

At these words, Reese had the impression that the sky had just fallen on his head. Realizing that his boss shared his feelings should have made him yell with joy but instead, this discovery terrified him. If Greer was right, his kidnapping was a real threat to Finch who would try everything to find him, even to put his life in danger. He decided to ignore this revelation and hissed between his teeth, "I never will let you use me to reach him."

The old man did not allow himself to be impressed by the barely veiled threat and answered in a falsely fatalistic tone, "We are fully aware of this, but I fear that you, alas, have no choice."

After another unsuccessful attempt at breaking free of his bonds, John warned in a dangerously calm voice, "I would prefer to kill myself rather than letting you use me to get to him."

Greer laughed softly, more amused than afraid of the agent's threat. "I am convinced of that, which is why we will have to do without your agreement."

An icy chill ran through Reese's body, who clenched his fists with anger. Despite the drug residue left in his body and the uncertainty about his future, the agent greeted Greer's gaze before sneering, his voice full of defiance, "The last time you tried to control someone, the result was rather disappointing."

Greer smiled, enjoying Reese's insolence. "I must admit that our experiments on Miss Shaw have been bitter failures. We therefore have reserved a much more radical method that has already proven itself in the past."

At this moment, a new nurse entered the room, carrying a metal tray. She put it on the table before leaving without a word. John frowned as he saw a small bottle and a syringe. "Do you intend to drug me again?"

Greer stood and picked up the bottle carefully. He gazed for a long moment at the transparent liquid before presenting it to his prisoner. "Oh, better than that. Do you know of angel dust, Mr. Reese?"

John's expression broke down as he heard the name that was painfully known in the secret world of spies.

Seeing the surprise mixed with fear disturbing the blue eyes of his prisoner, Greer had his answer. His eyes glittered with unhealthy joy as he murmured, "I see that you do."

* * *

 _For those who know the City Hunter manga, you already know what angel dust is. For others, there are two options: either wait for the next chapter or spoil it shamefully! It's up to you!  
_


	4. Like a bird in a cage

The Weight of Darkness  
by RocheIle17

 _The Sunday evening blues... Although I'm not quite sure that this chapter is pure relaxation. To resume the structure of the play (even if I don't have the talent of an author), I will say that this is a rebound, namely an unexpected event likely to complicate the situation (even more?!). (In any case I really liked to write it. ;p Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and thanks again for the very encouraging comments.  
_

* * *

"So?" Shaw asked without lifting her head from her work.

Samantha delicately closed the door to the guest room that now served as an office for Finch. After fierce negotiations, the young woman had succeeded with the force of her arguments to convince the recluse to settle for the night in the apartment that usually served as a hideout in case of emergency. And as an emergency, they could hardly do worse.

Root gave a long sigh and leaned her forehead against the door. Even though she was hiding it, she was as lost as the man behind the wall. She had no idea what the future would be like, and the last confidences of the Machine weren't enough to reassure her.

Faced with her prolonged silence, Sameen looked up to observe her companion and tried a little harder to get her out of her lethargy. "How is he?"

"Always the same," Root murmured, turning slowly to lean against the door, contemplating her partner who, sitting on the sofa in the living room, had started cleaning her favourite weapons.

"Had he found something?" asked the little brunette as she reassembled her Beretta Nano 9mm with as much dexterity as a child nesting Lego blocks.

"He didn't say anything, but judging by his face, I'm afraid not," murmured the hacker as she advanced slowly to sit next to her friend. "I'm worried about him. He hasn't taken his eyes off his laptop, didn't touch his meal, and didn't sleep."

"It's only been twelve hours since Reese was kidnapped," the slayer tried to reassure her as she began to clean her Uzi.

The young computer scientist nodded silently but she wasn't fooled, and knew that Shaw was just as worried about the situation. Certain signs couldn't deceive her. She could easily see that her companion was avoiding her gaze, that her tone was drier, and that her gestures seemed more nervous than usual. Moreover, as soon as she had learned of John's kidnapping, the ex-assassin had started to clean her arsenal. Root glanced at the assault rifles, revolvers, and other pistols lying on the coffee table in front of her. But her last sentence was the most obvious sign of her anxiety. Since when did Shaw try to reassure her by lying brazenly? Root knew her well.

In a case of abduction, the first hours were crucial. As a general rule, the kidnappers quickly made contact in order to convey their demands and begin negotiations. Conversely, silence often meant the death of the hostage. But twelve hours was a true eternity! The young woman closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the back of the sofa, suddenly very tired.

For John, they could do nothing but wait. But Root was worried most about Finch. Although he had given in to their repeated requests by agreeing to settle for the night in the hideout, as soon as he arrived he had gone to isolate himself in the guest room to continue his research. And all night long he hadn't stopped working as he traced all paths, both possible and imagined, that could have allowed him to find Reese. He had watched with almost unhealthy attention all the day's surveillance videos, and had listened to the audio file of the last conversation with Livia dozens of times.

At about three o'clock in the morning, when Root knocked on the door of his room, the absence of an answer forced her to enter without having been invited. Carrying a tray loaded with a sandwich, a bottle of orange juice, and an apple, the young woman slowly approached her friend, her heart squeezed by the distressing spectacle she saw before her. With his face closed in anguish, his tired features, and his eyes reddened by staring at the computer screen too much, Finch was only a shadow of himself. Totally absorbed in his research, the man didn't notice her. He seemed lost, literally and figuratively. He had taken off his jacket and waistcoat, loosened his tie, unbuttoned the first buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. He was far from the Finch who was always dressed to the nines. He had written a multitude of notes on a pad and had passed his hand so many times through his hair that brown wicks stuck out in all directions.

Worried, she couldn't help but begin, "Harold, you have to rest and eat a little."

"I'm fine, Miss Groves," the man snapped, not even deigning to look at her.

"You won't be of any help to us if you don't have all your faculties. The Machine told us to wait."

He cut her off with an icy look. "The Machine has no idea what's going to happen." Obviously he was very annoyed by the absence of any solution proposed by his creation.

Root had been deeply hurt by her partner's rejection but she could hardly blame him. After all, had not she, too, pursued the search alone when Shaw was gone, despite the doubts and reluctance of the other members of the team? Was she not, at this very moment, hiding an essential element of the equation from Finch? But in view of his condition, she was almost certain that he would not hear her explanations, preferring to listen to his heart rather than his reason. She remained silent and left the room with her head down, gnawed at by remorse.

"And you, since when have you eaten?" Shaw asked, watching the tired face of her companion.

Root opened her eyes, a sensual smile appeared on her lips as she answered with her usual mischievousness, "You worry about me? I'm touched."

Not knowing what to do with this implied mark of attention, the slayer suddenly rose from the couch and glanced at her girlfriend before retorting brazenly, "Not especially, but it'll be boring to have two geeks who have passed out because of lack of sleep and food."

Root uttered a joyless laugh because Shaw's expression contradicted her harsh words. Under her hard and brittle shell, Shaw, too, seemed to be very worried about Finch.

Uncomfortable at being so transparent, Shaw sighed loudly as she rolled her eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. She emerged a few minutes later with a tray loaded with fresh coffee and pastries. She walked over to Root, who appeared to have fallen asleep on the couch. But the young woman knew instinctively that she wasn't sleeping. She put the breakfast on the living room table and asked without preamble, "What aren't you telling me?"

Root slowly opened her eyes and sighed. Eyeing the ceiling absently, she kept silent for long minutes before asking, feigning surprise, "What makes you think I'm hiding something from you?"

"Because you answered my question with another question."

Root laughed again. Shaw was definitely very insightful, but she couldn't tell the truth. Knowing her friend, she was almost certain that Shaw would become as violent and unpredictable as a mad dog if she knew the Machine's last message. The team had already lost Reese. Finch was in danger. She could not risk losing Shaw, too. Ignoring her partner's last remark, the hacker stood up, stretched, and then sat down to breakfast. After pouring coffee into her cup, she grabbed a chocolate loaf and, despite her lack of appetite, munched a mouthful of it. Shaw realized that she would not get an answer and settled in front of her.

A heavy tense silence invaded the apartment, which was beginning to light up with a red-orange light. The sun was rising on New York. A new day began for the inhabitants of the metropolis but for them, time seemed to be suspended.

* * *

Finch took off his glasses and leaned heavily against the back of his chair. His head back, he ran his hand over his forehead, hoping to ease the headache that was twisting his temples, the result of a long night's work. Despite hours spent watching the tapes from surveillance cameras near the Gamesoft headquarters and replaying the conversation between John and Livia over and over, the computer scientist had not found anything to tell him where his agent had been taken. He seemed to have vanished.

The fatigue, the dozen hours spent watching and listening to the same images over and over again, especially the silence of the kidnappers, made him mad with anxiety. Everything was bogged down in his mind, and knowing that John was in the clutches of Samaritan was the most horrible torture. He couldn't help but imagine the worst: interrogations, drugs, or abuse. Maybe even now, John was already dead... Finch shook his head to drive away such morbid thoughts.

The man gave a long sigh and decided to get up to refresh himself. He leaned on the armrests of his chair but a violent pain in his hip lanced through him, forcing him to sit down again. He realized that fatigue, stress, and too much immobility had stiffened his muscles, making any movement very painful. Clenching his teeth so as not to moan, Finch tried again to rise. He struggled to stand up and stretched to relax his sore muscles. With a hesitant step, he walked to the adjoining bathroom. But the five meters that separated his office from the bathroom seemed very long. His throbbing hip and his too-stiff back made his walk more difficult than usual.

Once in the bathroom, he put his glasses aside and then opened the taps to splash his face with cold water. After shutting off the water, he put his hands on the sink and then stared at the mirror for a long time. He looked horrible. Even without his glasses he could see his tired features, the dark circles under his eyes, his hair disheveled from all the times he took his head in his hands in despair. Not to mention his outfit... He lowered his head so as not to see his frightful appearance, and remained for long minutes contemplating the fixtures without actually seeing them, trying to put some order in his mind.

But it was a waste of time. Finch had the impression of being stuck at the starting point, not knowing where to look, and especially, having no idea what the future would bring. He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and sighed. Miss Groves was right. Fatigue and anxiety had begun to overcome his intellectual faculties. He would be of no help, or worse, he could be a dead weight, if he did not agree to a little rest. He turned his head and saw the shower that seemed to invite him. After all, a good shower and a good breakfast could only do him good.

He took off his clothes with somewhat stiff gestures, threw them into a corner of the room, and then entered the shower. He turned on the tap and the water ran instantly over his body, dousing his head, shoulders, and back. Motionless under the hot spray, Finch savoured that moment, feeling a little better. His headache and pains were fading. However, if his body was better, his mind was still tormented by John's kidnapping. The same questions had looped in his head since the day before: Where was he? What were they doing to him? Even if he tried not to think about it, as soon as he closed his eyes, Finch was assailed by images of torture. He saw John's body methodically tortured, martyred by blows, covered with lacerations and blood...

To think about it, since he had thrown himself headlong into the search for a clue, even by spending a sleepless night, it was mainly to occupy his mind so he wouldn't have to think about the treatment that Samaritan reserved for John. Indeed, if the agents of the other AI had left clues, the Machine would have already informed them... Unless... Finch opened his eyes, as if struck by lightning.

"Is it possible that..?" he murmured before interrupting himself abruptly, aware that he could be watched.

He quickly soaped himself, rinsed, and then left the shower. He dried himself and tied a towel around his hips. He limped back to his room and chose clean clothes from the closet. While lost in his thoughts, the man put on his underwear, black trousers, and an emerald shirt with mechanical gestures. Once dressed, and his hair disciplined, Finch already felt better. His ideas were clearer even though the tension of John's absence had not subsided.

The man turned his head towards the window and was surprised to see that it was past dawn. He reflexively looked at his watch and found that it was almost eight o'clock in the morning. It had been thirteen hours since his agent had been kidnapped. And still no news.

But in the midst of his dark thoughts, the recluse had a glimmer of hope as an idea sprouted in his mind. He went back to his desk and stared at his monitor, which was still fixed on the last picture of John and Livia leaving the Gamesoft building to go to an obscure bar in Hell's Kitchen. He closed the previous day's video file, connected to the city's surveillance networks, and typed the start-up's address into his search engine.

As he suspected, the city was starting to come to life. Pedestrians were hurrying along the sidewalks and traffic was becoming more and more dense on Twelfth Avenue. From the point of view of cleaners who were busy in the premises of the start-up, the company was soon to open its doors. Satisfied, Finch closed the window and looked for surveillance videos from a new address. Immediately, the image of a new building appeared on his screen: not a business building but rather a ten-storey residential building with a slightly dated facade. At his request, the camera zoomed in on one of the windows where a feminine silhouette could be seen through the curtains.

A cold smile appeared on Finch's face and his eyes shone brightly with a metallic luster. The man was slowly regaining his fighting spirit as his plan took shape. He turned off his computer and then closed the cover gently. He finished dressing by tying a tie the same shade as his shirt and then put on his jacket. He walked slowly to the door of his room, put his hand on the handle and took a long breath to compose a neutral and calm face before opening it.

No sooner had he crossed the threshold of his room than two pairs of brown eyes converged in his direction. The recluse stepped into the middle of the living room as he stared at Shaw's arsenal, which was still on the coffee table, and then turned his attention back to the two young women. Sitting at the big table in the living room, they were drinking cups of coffee while nibbling pastries for breakfast.

"Do you have anything new, Harold?" Root asked as she got up, surprised to see her partner so well primed, whereas, just a few hours prior, he seemed totally amorphous in front of his computer.

"No," he answered, sighing before asking her in turn, "What about you?"

The young woman knew exactly who was hiding behind this "you".

"The Machine hasn't contacted me since the announcement of his kidnapping."

The computer scientist tried to keep a brave face but Root easily saw his disappointment. The man smiled sadly before limping toward the young women.

"You all right?" asked Shaw, whose expert eye had immediately identified her boss' obvious signs of suffering.

"As well as I can manage for someone of my age who has just spent a sleepless night working and is under intense stress. May I?" he asked, pointing to the cakes and the coffee pot on the tray in front of the girls.

"Oh yes, of course," Root answered eagerly as she rushed into the kitchen to fetch a cup for her friend.

Once served, Finch began nibbling at the sweets while sipping coffee under the astonished glances of the two young women. A disturbing and quite unusual silence reigned in the apartment. Even Bear, lying on his carpet, seemed to do his best not to attract attention. Unable to stand it, Shaw broke the silence, asking in a voice whose amused tone contrasted with the preoccupied expressions of her two friends, "You're drinking coffee now, Finch?"

"Given the dramatic circumstances we are living in, I'm not sure that my change of drink is of paramount importance," the man said coldly as he glared at the young woman.

Root, meanwhile, was destabilized by Finch's attitude. The man seemed too calm, too serene, too sure of himself; the antithesis of the anxious, lost, and stressed Finch she had seen the previous night. Something was wrong. She knew him too well. She knew that only new information could create such a change in her partner. What was he hiding? She was about to ask what he had in mind when he spoke ahead of her.

"I thought about it carefully, and the only person who can help us find John is Livia Edwood. I would like to go to Gamesoft headquarters to watch for her arrival," announced the recluse as he put his cup on the coffee table in front of them, before leveling his gaze upon both his partners.

Only the cold rattling of the porcelain on the glass tabletop greeted his tirade.

"Do you want to kidnap her?" asked Shaw, who didn't believe her ears.

"Not necessarily, I just want to know what Samaritan expects from us."

"Perfect! Finally, a little action!" exclaimed the brunette, standing up to head to the coffee table to pick out the weapons she intended to bring for this first mission since the kidnapping.

Root was far from sharing her enthusiasm. She hadn't reacted to Finch's announcement and was content to fix him with her piercing stare, seeking to know what was hiding behind this plan, which was unexpected and useless in her eyes.

"Do you really think she will come to work as if nothing had happened?" she asked with perplexity, badly hiding her skepticism.

Finch shrugged before answering, "I have no idea, but for now, this is the only option we have."

Root was more than doubtful but she didn't have time to explain her doubts because Shaw called, "Are we going?"

The hacker stood up, imitated by Finch. Realizing that the man intended to accompany them into the field, she curtly ordered, "Not you. You stay there!"

"Why? I want to come with you!" exclaimed the man as he stepped towards his coat and hat, which had been sitting on an armchair since the previous day.

"Because it's obvious that Samaritan seeks to kidnap you again, and that it's using John to get to you," the woman said impatiently, standing in front of the staircase leading to the door, thus barring the passage.

"Do you really believe that I will stay here waiting for you while you risk your lives, and that John might be..." Finch didn't have the strength to finish his sentence, his last word stuck in his knotted throat. But Root didn't care and threatened him openly.

"You have no choice: either you wait here nicely, or I'll tie you up. You know perfectly well that I won't hesitate to do it," she explained in a dangerously calm voice as she glanced sideways at Shaw, recalling that she hadn't hesitated to drug the slayer to keep her in the subway station when her identity had been discovered by Martine, a Samaritan agent.

Finch glared at her but kept silent, aware that he effectively didn't have a leg to stand on. Still standing in the middle of the living room, he helplessly watched them prepare for the mission. They each concealed two weapons under their clothes and Shaw made certain to wear a helmet, not forgetting that she was always wanted by the agents of the other AI since her escape.

Once ready, they climbed the five steps leading to the heavy armored door. Root typed a code on the digital panel that prevented access to the apartment and then turned to Finch. "I'll lock the door behind us, and I obviously took care to change the code. If you decide to tamper with the box, know that I'll be immediately informed by our mutual friend."

Finch raised an eyebrow before asking in a bitter tone, "You don't trust me?"

Root smiled before retorting, "She does, yes; but me, no."

Finch's body completely tensed with anger. He clenched his fists and his eyes glowed with rage as he watched his partners leave the apartment. Several metal rattles followed by an electronic beep indicated that the armored door was now locked. So here he was a prisoner!

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the two women had found the perfect place to watch for Livia's arrival at Gamesoft, if she did in fact show up for work. Sitting on a bench facing the Hudson River, one sipping a coffee while the other munching on a donut, they looked like any walkers who were enjoying the panorama and calm of early morning. Except that instead of gazing at the splendid sunrise over the buildings, their eyes were riveted on the entrance to the start-up's premises, examining each employee who was heading for the red brick building.

After ten minutes of surveillance, Shaw broke the silence by asking, "You really think she'll come?"

"I don't have the faintest idea."

The answer, and above all the fatalistic tone, aroused the slayer who turned her head to stare at her neighbour. "Your girlfriend didn't talk to you about it?" she asked in a slightly condescending voice, as if she was jealous of the relationship between her friend and the AI.

"She's not very talkative at this moment," Root murmured, her eyes suddenly blank, as if absent.

This change of attitude did not escape Shaw who asked quietly, as she paid attention to another employee, probably late, running on the sidewalk, "What's wrong?"

Root uttered a joyless laugh before answering ironically, "Other than the fact that John got kidnapped, our covers were blown, and Finch is in danger?"

"Yes."

Shaw's dry, brutal response discomfited the hacker who turned to look at her companion's profile. Feeling watched, the latter interrupted her surveillance to immerse her gaze in Root's. Root immediately felt very nervous. She had the impression that the dark, almost black eyes of her companion had the power to probe the depths of her soul. They were direct and frank in the manner of her grave and sensual voice when Shaw said in a whisper, "I know you didn't tell Finch everything."

Samantha flinched under the accusation but recovered quickly. Being prudent, Root feigned ignorance. "What do you mean?" she asked, praying that her voice would not shake too much.

Shaw gave a slight smile before answering in a dangerously soft voice, "I find it very strange that you aren't investigating Reese more actively. You even seem... resigned. But you never stopped looking for me even when everyone thought I was dead."

Root kept silent for a few seconds, searching for a plausible argument to explain the obvious contradiction pointed out by her overly clairvoyant partner. "It's different. I know John was trained for this kind of situation. He is able to get by on his own," explained the hacker, turning her attention to the Gamesoft building, carefully avoiding looking at her companion.

But the ex-assassin understood the subterfuge and gently took Root's face in her hands. She forced her to look at her before whispering, "Me too; I was trained for _this kind of situation_ , but that didn't prevent me from... weakening. And at the moment that I was about to lose all hope, you saved me by sending me that code. Why don't you try to do the same for John?"

Root, softened by the gleam of misunderstanding and pain that shone in her friend's dark eyes, grabbed her wrists and caressed them tenderly before answering in a whisper, "I don't care about him as much as I care about you."

A fragile smile appeared on Sameen's face, visibly touched by this admission. She slowly lowered her head towards her companion but stopped at the last second. Eyes half closed, her lips a few inches from those of Root, she murmured sensually, "I don't I believe the half of it. If you really care about me, tell me everything you know."

Despite the sensual tension that disturbed Root to the highest degree, she had to remain cautious. It was rare for Shaw to publicly testify about her feelings, especially when she was on a mission. The computer scientist suspected her of using her charm to extract information from her. She therefore opted for her usual attitude, between teasing and frankness. "You're trying to seduce me?" she asked in a hoarse voice, her eyes fixed on her companion's lips.

The latter's smile grew before Root's intelligence and combativeness. "I can use a stronger method if you insist," Shaw drawled as she flicked back a brown lock that had slipped on her partner's forehead.

Root shuddered violently, troubled by this action of spontaneous tenderness. She had to put an end to this sweet torture as soon as possible, or she would lose control of the situation. She decided to reveal a part of her secret that had suddenly become too heavy to bear. She lowered her head and inhaled deeply before explaining in a hesitant voice, "You're right, I actually did hide something from Harold." She paused before resuming, carefully choosing her words as she feared her companion's reaction. "It's not I who doesn't want to look for John."

Shaw sat there for a moment without reacting, not sure if she understood the meaning. Then she frowned before asking in a blank voice, "The Machine doesn't want to save John?"

"Yes."

"What?! But why?!" cried the ex-assassin as she rose suddenly, breaking their embrace. Shaw seemed lost, but mostly very angry. Her eyes gleamed with suppressed rage and she clenched her fists so hard that the knuckles whitened under the pressure. Her whole body was trembling as if the fury she felt threatened to explode at any moment.

"For the Machine, John is no longer our priority. She wants us to protect Harold by all means."

"What! The Machine is asking us to sacrifice Reese to save Finch?!" Seeing that Root remained silent, Sameen continued to point a threatening finger at her friend. "I refuse to abandon him!"

After spitting those words in Root's face, Shaw spun around to turn her back on her. Arms clamped on her body and her fists still clenched, she stared at the Hudson without actually seeing it, disturbed by her companion's revelations and extremely disappointed by the Machine. Although she had a relatively strong confidence in the AI, she had at least hoped that their lives counted for a little more.

Wounded by the glimmer of distrust she had caught in Shaw's gaze just before she turned away, Root got up and grabbed Shaw's arm to force her to face her. "We must trust the Machine! For now, we have to focus on Harold!"

Shaw pulled away brutally before asking in an aggressive tone, "If the Machine had asked you to abandon me to save Finch, would you?"

Root quickly dropped her eyes, unable to hold her partner's uncompromising gaze. At the mere mention of this inextricable dilemma to which she had no answer, she felt tears fog her eyes. Even if she had a blind trust in the Machine, she couldn't consider giving up her companion for anything.

Facing that silence that she took as an admission, Shaw hissed in a dangerously low voice, "I won't leave John. I…" But Shaw trailed off, realizing that her partner was no longer listening. Indeed, Root had just raised her head, her eyes shining with tears, fixed on a point in front of her while she listened with her body extremely taut, to new instructions from the Machine. Swallowing the scathing remark she had on the tip of the tongue, the ex-assassin waited patiently for the conversation between the AI and its Analog Interface to end before asking angrily, "What did she say?"

Root cast a dismayed look at her partner before announcing in a blank voice, "The Machine detected an attempted break-in in the apartment."

Shaw's rancour and anger vanished like magic. "The Samaritan agents are trying to get in?" she asked.

"No, it's more likely that Harold is trying to leave."

Shaw couldn't hold back a smile as he imagined the man trying to escape from his golden prison. Decidedly, her boss never ceased to amaze her. Under his formal air, Finch had a very surprising rebellious side that didn't displease her. She had already noticed this, especially when Arthur Claypool had delivered a few confidences about their years at MIT. She had then discovered a whole other Finch: a womanizer, rough singer, and more improbably, the origin of jokes on his campus.

Root, meanwhile, was far from savouring the comedy of the situation. She feared more than anything that the recluse would flee and blend into nature as he knew how to do so well. Conscious that they didn't have a minute to spare, she grabbed Shaw's arm and hurriedly led her to the small alley where their motorcycle was hidden. The hacker mounted, handed a helmet to her partner and then put on her own. She started the motor and opened the throttle without waiting, giving Shaw just enough time to grasp her body.

The motorcycle raced at full speed in the dense traffic of early morning in New York. Slaloming with dexterity between the vehicles, they arrived in front of their building in barely ten minutes. It must be said that the Machine was no stranger in the establishment of this speed record, since all the lights had miraculously turned green at their approach.

They'd hardly parked as the two women descended from the Ducati and then rushed into the hall under the incredulous gaze of the inhabitants. The doors of the elevator opened and closed on them like magic: another intervention of the Machine. She was decidedly adamant that they reach the apartment as quickly as possible. This observation froze Root's blood, who was only too aware of the urgency of the situation. But despite all their efforts, once on their floor's landing, they could see that the door of their apartment was ajar.

"Damn it," Root cursed between her teeth as she pulled out her weapon and gently pushed the door open. Holding her breath, she carefully scanned the inside for a possible presence. But from the corridor, the place seemed empty.

Gun in hand, Shaw entered first. Using the methods and thoroughness of her years at the ISA, the ex-agent combed the apartment in search of her boss. No one. Finch had vanished. "Well, it looks like our bird has flown," Sameen said, shouldering her gun as she approached her companion.

Standing in the middle of the living room, Root seemed to be frozen next to the big table, bewilderedly looking at the things that Finch had ostentatiously placed there, in plain view. Shaw followed her partner's gaze and noticed that the man had left his computer, his mobile phone and his earwig. Their boss was not as naïve as he made people believe. He had been careful to leave behind anything that would allow them to track him, including the device that Reese had hidden in his glasses after his multiple abductions.

Then, seized by a bad feeling, Sameen turned to the coffee table in front of the sofa. They had left so hastily earlier that she hadn't bothered to put away the weapons she had just cleaned. Sweeping her gaze across her arsenal, she froze in her turn.

"What's going on?" Root asked, seeing her partner's expression break down.

"It looks like our little sparrow has turned into a bird of prey," Shaw said, pointing to an empty spot on the table. 


	5. The fallen angel

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _New chapter that will finally explain the attitude of the Machine. Of course her attitude has an explanation! So this is a new twist (what else?!), which will complicate the situation even more (is it possible?!). So a little mea culpa, I wrote this chapter with the plan of the New York subway under my eyes as well as the plan of the city, but it is possible that there are dissimilarities in places. If so, excuse me in advance. ^^ "PS: I think some will recognize a slight professional distortion in my description of the city MDR. Thank you to all who take the time to read and to those who take the time to post comments of encouragement, always greatly appreciated!  
_

* * *

This Tuesday morning looked like any other day of the week in the gigantic world metropolis that was New York. A dense and hurried crowd of workers jostled each other on the busy sidewalks before rushing into one of the city's many buildings, onto a bus, or in one of the thirteen thousand yellow taxis that plied the city. The vehicles, too many, were immobilized in a huge traffic jam specific to rush hour. At the centre of an intersection, a police officer tried hard to restore a semblance of order in all this chaos. The Big Apple looked like an anthill: bubbling, noisy, and tumultuous.

Like all major world-ranked cities, New York spread over hundreds of kilometers as the five boroughs of the city, Manhattan, Queens, the Bronx, Harlem, and Staten Island spread over more than 1200 square kilometers. The most convenient means of transport for the inhabitants was therefore the subway. It was fast, reliable, and especially, extremely inexpensive. The city was crossed by 26 subway lines that served 472 stations. Every day, more than five million New Yorkers used the subway to connect their home in the suburbs to their work, located in the Manhattan business district.

At eight o'clock, one might as well say that the subway corridors were invaded by the crowds. A motley throng of elegant businessmen in expensive suits, secretaries in chic suits, lanky-looking students, as well as hippies and homeless people, were rushing to the platforms of Line 1 connecting the Bronx to the southern tip of Manhattan. Submerged in this crowd, a young woman with an adolescent appearance was waiting for her train. Leaning on one of the pillars, headset on her ears, she was immersed in reading a book, totally indifferent to the ambient agitation. Unlike her neighbours, who seemed nervous and stressed as they glanced at their watches and then at the lighted panel that displayed the state of traffic, the woman was calm, quiet, as if in a bubble.

Suddenly she lifted her head, as if her attention had been brutally captured by something else. In appearance nothing had changed, if not for a slight pressure in the small of her back, indicating a presence that was far from friendly.

"I knew you were going to come," she murmured as she closed her book with a calculated slowness.

"You? Samaritan rather," corrected the man right behind her.

"That or me, how is that important?" she replied, casually raising her shoulders as she put her book in the worn canvas bag she wore on her shoulder.

"The importance is paramount: you are as insignificant as a pawn for it, like me and all the rest," explained the man as he approached a bit more.

He was so close that she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck. She didn't rise to the insult and asked insolently, "I guess you're not here to make conversation?"

Even if she didn't see his face, the tone of voice in which he replied indicated to her that he was smiling.

"You're right, so let's get to the facts. Where's John?"

Livia smiled in turn before answering, "He's alive, don't worry."

Finch took one more step toward the young woman, pressing his gun a little harder on her back. He bent down until his lips were almost against her ear while he murmured in a dangerously calm voice, articulating each syllable as if he were addressing a child, "That was not my question. Tell me, where is John?"

Despite her apparent relaxation, the young woman stiffened as she felt the barrel of the weapon sinking a little more into her kidneys. "Samaritan warned me that you would seek to find him by all means."

"It knows me very well," said the computer programmer with irony, remembering that the AI had captured John for the same reasons that it had once kidnapped Grace.

"Human beings are so predictable, so weak," retorted the young woman in a contemptuous tone.

"I don't quite agree with that. Man can be inventive, intuitive, and surprisingly spontaneous," he explained as he armed his pistol to illustrate his point. He, the man who abhorred guns, could, with a simple pressure of the index finger, put a definitive end to a life.

"It knew that you would come to see me," she replied with quick gestures of her chin, indicating the Samaritan agents who had mixed with the crowd and who watched them more or less discreetly.

But Finch was in no way surprised to be so watched. He had been expecting this welcoming committee, and that was why he was armed. He gave a short mirthless laugh before asking, "And what do you intend to do? Kidnap me here in front of all these witnesses in the middle of rush hour? Or kill me?"

"It's true that you couldn't have found a better place to approach me."

"Thank you."

"Samaritan also warned us of your intelligence, that's why it hasn't killed you yet."

Suddenly addressed by the young woman's last words, Finch, driven by curiosity, asked, "What do you mean?"

Livia raised her arms to indicate that she was no danger and turned slowly to face her assailant. "Samaritan wants you to work for it. You have done something incredible with your Machine, and it would also like to benefit from your know-how."

Harold blinked in surprise. Samaritan had some nerve! To think that he would one day work for it was at the limit of imagination. Their visions of the world were as distant as day and night. He replied in an ironically contemptuous tone, "Your boss is evidently not as perceptive as that; I will never work for it!"

"Even if John's life was at stake?" retorted the young woman in a flash. She seemed to know far too much about her AI's plan.

Harold froze, rendered ill at ease by the little smile Livia gave him, as well as the falsely affectionate voice, in what looked more or less like odious blackmail. He had the unpleasant impression that he was losing control of the situation, that Miss Edwood, by her half-serious threats, was gaining the advantage on him. Ridiculous when he was the one holding a gun!

He decided to have a clear heart. Displaying a façade of confidence, he asked in a dry tone, "Will you explain?"

"The deal is simple: you for your precious John."

Finch uttered a huge inner sigh. An exchange. He expected no less. Sweeping his doubts out of his mind, the recluse hastened to ask for the information necessary to save his partner. "Where and when?"

Livia kept quiet but rummaged in the pocket of her jeans. She extracted a little piece of carefully folded paper before murmuring, "You know that the walls have ears," as she handed the note to Finch.

Finch took the paper with a trembling hand and unfolded it, taking good care that the message was not visible from any surveillance camera. As he expected, the script was clear and concise. Only four small words were noted in an elegant handwriting: "Jefferson Bridge, ten o'clock."

The man frowned. This meeting place, this bridge...

"Well, I see that you already know the place," she declared, reveling in her interrogator's sudden paleness.

The man gave her a cold look before carefully folding the paper and slipping it into the side pocket of his trousers. "We have nothing more to say to each other," he announced abruptly.

Scarcely had he uttered these words than a subway train entered the station with a deafening din. The train stopped with a shrill sound of brakes. The automatic doors opened to let out a horde of hurried travelers, who were somewhat annoyed by the crowd that was waiting on the platform blocked their passage. Once everyone exited, the other passengers rushed into the train. An audible signal sounded, indicating the impending closing of the doors. Finch took advantage of this distraction to pass Livia, jostling her to the point of losing her balance. She avoided a fall only by the reflex of one of the Samaritan agents who was nearby. Harold took advantage of the confusion to climb into the train car just before the doors closed.

He stood in front of the glass and scanned, with a small smile at the corner of his mouth, the Samaritan agents who were forced to watch him go, helpless.

Once alone, Finch felt all his tension loosen at once. He began to tremble violently to the point that his legs threatened to yield under his weight. He clung to a metal bar so as not to collapse. He was suddenly hot even though his whole body was crawling with shivers. With a trembling hand he loosened his tie, looking for oxygen. That discussion with Livia Edwood had been more challenging than expected.

"Sir, are you all right?" asked a pregnant woman of approximately thirty years who was sitting on a seat next to him.

Finch turned towards his neighbour and gave her a lost look, as if he didn't understand the question.

"You want to sit?" she proposed as she rose with difficulty, a hand in the hollow of her back to help herself stabilize.

"Oh, no, thank you, it was a slight vertigo. I'm better now," he reassured her by giving a thin smile.

The young woman stood motionless for a moment, watching him with a suspicious air. Once reassured, she sat and plunged back into her book. Finally, this spontaneous and full-of-humanity intervention of this unknown woman had allowed Finch to regain his wits. She proved that his fight was right, that man was able to help his neighbour without ulterior motives, just out of kindness. Something that Samaritan would never do.

Seven stations further along, Finch limped along with dozens of other travelers and stepped out of the train. Concealed in the crowd, he proceeded up the long subway corridor and then turned suddenly to his left to reach a public restroom. The man was immediately assaulted by a foul smell of urine and detergent. Ignoring the unsanitary appearance of the place, the broken tiles, the cracked mirror, sinks clogged with paper, or the obscene graffiti, the computer scientist went to isolate himself in one of the stalls whose cleanliness was more than dubious. He put his backpack next to the toilet and began to undress, removing his jacket and then his tie, shoving them into the front pocket of his pack. He removed a black jacket and a Yankee team cap. He donned his new clothes and then exited, purposely abandoning the backpack.

He threw a quick glance at his appearance in the mirror. Pleased to see that he no longer resembled his usual image of an elegant and wealthy man, Finch left the restroom. Rummaging in one of the jacket pockets, he pulled out an old card that was worn and scribbled on in red pen. He observed it a few moments without ceasing to walk and then folded it before putting it away, having engraved in his mind the ideal route to get to the rendezvous point without possibly being spotted by an AI, no matter which one.

* * *

"She spotted him?" asked Shaw as she tried to keep up with the fast pace imposed by Root.

"Yes, she saw him on the subway less than fifteen minutes ago while he was talking with Livia."

"Yet he sent us to watch her at work," murmured the ex-assassin to herself.

"He ostensibly sent us to the other end of the city so that he could escape quietly and to go directly to her. It was a trap."

"Smart."

Root nodded but kept silent. She knew how much of a formidable adversary Finch was. His moral code often hindered his potential, as the image of the Machine before her reboot. But now... Nothing would stop the man in his frantic quest to find John. The fact that he was armed, he who regarded weapons and violence with horror, was the obvious proof. The hacker was afraid that her friend would throw himself into the wolf's mouth for nothing.

"Do you think he's going to quietly wait for us on the platform?" asked Shaw between two quick breaths.

"Honestly, I don't think so, but for lack of better..." replied Root with a sigh.

"I have the unpleasant feeling that we are still lagging behind in this story," commented Shaw.

The hacker agreed with her companion. She was being fooled by Finch and by Samaritan. She wasn't used to that. Being the Analog Interface of the Machine had allowed her, for three years, to be always one step ahead of the events and to have an overall vision of the situation. For the first time, she had absolutely no idea what the future was for them. Samaritan had Reese, and Finch was about to throw himself into its claws to save him. But what he didn't know was that the ex-operative was not to be saved.

She accelerated her pace and then they were engulfed by the mouth of the subway entrance that the Machine had indicated to her. They ran at full speed down the staircase that led to the bowels of the city. The rush hour had now passed and the two young women had no problem getting to the platform. Once in the subway station, they scanned the place to try to find any race of Finch or Samaritan agents but there was no one. No trace of the computer scientist, Livia, or other AI agents. The place was hopelessly deserted.

"He went into a toilet seven stations from here, but the Machine never saw him come out."

Shaw straightened her head and raised a wary eyebrow. Without a word, she walked to the edge of the platform. She was so close that Root believed for a moment that she was going to throw herself on the tracks. At the end of the tunnel, she could see two headlights as the next train approached. It stopped before them with a deafening din and a gigantic rush of air that lifted their brown hair. They climbed into an almost empty car and waited the doors closed.

"Do you think he's still there?" asked the hacker while the subway was slowly starting.

"No, but I'm sure he left clues behind him."

"What do you mean?"

"Because in his place, I would have done the same," replied the ex-assassin with a smile in the corner of her mouth, more and more amused by the Finch's attitude. If the circumstances were not so dramatic, she would have had so much fun to chase him.

They descended from the train seven stations further and went directly to the public washroom. The subway was now nearly deserted. A handful of travelers, undoubtedly tourists, strolled quietly in the corridors of the subway, eyes riveted on the map of the network, looking for their destination. Two maintenance workers emptied the garbage and picked up the papers that littered the station floor.

"Stay there," ordered Shaw as she pushed the door of the men's restroom.

"Hey! What are you doing here?!" cried a man of a certain age, outraged to see a woman enter this place that was reserved for men.

"It's okay, it's okay," replied Shaw as she took out her Beretta, "do what you have to do without paying attention to me."

"But?!" the man protested as he awkwardly rebuttoned his trousers before leaving the place promptly, scandalised by the young woman's attitude, and above all, frightened by the weapon she wielded.

But the young woman didn't care about the decency of this gentleman; she methodically inspected the toilets from the bottom to the top, yanking open the doors of each toilet stall to try to understand how Finch had been able to pass under the Machine's radar. It was only when she opened the third door that she understood. A backpack had been carelessly forgotten behind a dirty toilet. She put her gun in her belt and seized the bag. She opened the zipper and pulled out some clothes, immediately recognizing the jacket and tie that Finch had worn in the morning at breakfast. She smiled and then left the bathroom, waving the items as if they were a trophy.

"Finch has changed his plumage, which is why the Machine hasn't spotted him. If he met Livia, he must now be following John's footsteps," she announced with a smile on her lips.

"No! That's impossible! He mustn't go!" cried Root as she grabbed her friend's felt hat and squeezed it against her.

Shaw remained perplexed by this sudden behaviour. It was extremely rare to see Root get carried away. In fact, even in the most dangerous situations, she had always shown the calm of an Olympian, keeping her composure in every circumstance, and sometimes even preserving a strand of humour or madness that was part of her charm. "He'll probably negotiate an exchange: himself for John. That's what he did when Grace was abducted by Greer. Once John is back with us, the team will do everything possible to get him back."

Root leaned back against the graffiti-covered wall of the station and closed her eyes. "If only it were as simple as that," she whispered faintly.

"What do you mean?! Of course it is! No?" asked Shaw as she approached her companion. She was torn between taking the young woman in her arms to comfort her, or shaking her like a plum tree to make her spit out the latest information that she was still hiding. She raised her hand to touch Root's tense face, but gunshots abruptly stopped her gesture.

By reflex, Shaw placed herself in front of her companion to protect her while drawing her Magnum. The two maintenance workers had switched their brooms for automatic rifles and sprayed bullets toward the two young women, who plastered themselves against the wall to protect themselves from their fire. Miraculously, the two agents were not particularly good shooters, and the women had the opportunity to retreat by ducking and weaving one after the other until they reached a heavy iron door at the end of a hallway.

Root forced the latch, praying that it wouldn't be locked, and sighed with relief as it yielded easily under pressure. She plunged into a small service corridor, followed by Shaw who closed the door before delaying their pursuers further by toppling a cardboard box that was filled with soft drink cans destined for the station's drink machines. They quickly ascended a maze of service corridors dimly lit by by night-lights placed every ten yards or so. At the end of this interminable maze, they found themselves blocked by a heavy iron door that was closed by a huge chain held by a padlock.

"Crap!" Root swore as she stopped dead. Hands on her knees, the brunette tried painfully to catch her breath at the same time as raising her spirits. When she heard footsteps approaching, she turned her head and pointed her weapon, her heart pounding.

Shaw didn't allow herself to be distracted, accustomed to facing this kind of situation when she worked for Northern Lights. With a spurt from her automatic pistol, she destroyed the padlock and removed the chain that blocked the exit. She pushed the heavy metal door with all her strength and the two young women stumbled into an alley perpendicular to Seventh Avenue. The ex-assassin firmly grasped her companion's arm and dragged her to the busy street. Once on the avenue, they slowed their steps so as not to attract the attention of pedestrians or the officers that patrolled not far from there.

Sameen thrust her cap a little lower on her head and then hailed a taxi. Soon a yellow vehicle pulled up next to them. Root opened the back door and waited for her partner to settle in before embarking herself and then closing the door.

"Drive! We'll tell you when to stop!" ordered the ex-assassin before turning her attention to Root.

Taken aback, the driver turned around to watch his new passengers.

"Go!" howled Shaw as she spotted the two Samaritan agents who were running towards the vehicle, pointing their weapons.

Two bullets pierced the car's body, making the driver aware of the urgency of the situation. He snapped to attention and pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor, causing the tires to squeal. The taxi peeled off with a shrill noise of rubber on the asphalt and a strong odour.

Relieved to be alive and out of that wasp nest, Sameen brought her attention to her companion who had walled herself in silence. Pressed into the back of the seat, her arms crossed in a defensive posture, Root seemed to be reflecting on the situation. Shaw leaned towards her, as menacing as a blade, and said in a dry tone, "Now, I've had enough. No more secrecy or half-truths! Tell me why Finch doesn't have to find John?"

"Finch must not fall into the hands of Samaritan."

"He already has once, and we managed to save him."

"Things have changed."

"I don't see how, unless they want to kill him?"

"Not far from there. Harold is very important to Samaritan; only he can give it that little more something that it's missing in comparison to the Machine."

"What do you mean? I thought all the simulations had ended in Samaritan being the winner?"

"That's right, but he gave his Machine that little extra bit of soul that makes it so special. Our two AI bear their names very badly: Samaritan is only a machine, cold and calculating, while the Machine wants to help people. She reasons, doubts, and learns from her mistakes."

"But I thought the feelings and doubts were just the Machine's weak point?"

"Greer doesn't want Samaritan to feel emotions or attachments to someone; he wants it to learn how to evolve, until it becomes totally self-sufficient."

"But, if Samaritan is endowed with reason..."

"Yes, it'll be much more powerful than the Machine, and completely out of control."

"Finch will never agree to work for Samaritan," asserted Shaw with a strong conviction.

Root gave her a helpless and frightened glance. "Unless he's forced to."

* * *

His face wrapped in the collar of his jacket, his cap pressed on his head, Finch was waiting, nervous and frightened, hidden behind a tree near the Jefferson Bridge. He had gone to the rendezvous place using the most anonymous and safe means of transportation: walking. Root's card had been particularly useful to him, enabling him to avoid all the surveillance cameras. The red areas which she had meticulously coloured on an ordinary road map had allowed him to get near the bridge without being spotted, not by the inquisitive gaze of Samaritan, but by the anxious one of his Machine.

He didn't know why but he was suspicious of his creation. On many occasions, under the pretext of protecting him, she had taken the initiative, putting his life ahead of the lives of others, not retreating behind anything, not murdering to arrive at her ends. However, this wasn't any life that was at stake, it was John's! Although he had hired John to be the weaponized arm of his AI, performing the menial tasks of the missions, the rules had now changed. Reese was no longer the simple field agent, the one who saved the numbers without asking questions, having a blind trust in him and risking his life without hesitation. John had become much more than that. And Harold could not consider leaving him within the claws of Samaritan without acting. He had to save him, as John had done for him many times without a shred of hesitation.

Yes, Finch didn't trust the Machine. He had never had a blind trust in it, unlike Root. She was too smart, too protective of him, too human... As if the AI had feelings for him, in the manner of a family member... of a father. Indeed, he had been touched and moved when she had called him _father_ at the time of her death... Like any child, she was a source of pride and great joy, but also disappointments and fears. She could also display possessiveness and exclusivity, controlling carefully and attentively all those who were around. If the Machine had made mistakes, it was primarily to protect him and it was always a good intention. No, he wasn't angry with her, although he didn't always agree with her decisions.

Finch had had doubts about the motivations of his creation from the moment when Root had no longer received any messages from her. Twelve hours without anything, not a shadow of evidence, or a clue! For an open-system AI, it was rather surprising. He had confirmation of his doubts when he had, for his part, been looking for information about Livia in the early morning. He had seen her prepare to go to work without problems, using the banal network of surveillance cameras in the city. But if he could do it so easily, it might as well be said that for a ubiquitous and omniscient AI it should've been a breeze. So the question was not: "Did the Machine find Livia's location?" but rather, "Why didn't the Machine warn them that Livia was going to her work as usual?"

After all, it was the only connection between John and Samaritan. For Finch, the answer was obvious: the Machine didn't want them to find John! This finding shook the recluse's heart. In this case he had to fight against two AIs, whom for radically opposite motives, struggled to separate him from the man he loved.

Because for Harold, his feelings couldn't be more clear. He loved John. The loss and the terror he felt to know he was in the hands of Samaritan had made him become aware of his feelings with astonishing intensity and evidence. No more doubt, and no more fear, came to disturb this observation: he loved John Reese, the man whom he had saved from himself five years earlier, and who had returned the same to him many times since. Of course Reese had a tormented past. He had been an exemplary soldier, risking his life for his country, and then was an extremely talented CIA agent in his field. Of course he had tortured and undoubtedly killed multiple times in the course of his missions. According to the Machine, he was responsible for 62 homicides.

Like any man, he had his faults. The most harmless included gluttony and caffeine in excess; to the darkest: a propensity for violence and a penchant for alcohol when he lost control. But still, he had seen how good this man was. Behind the demons that tortured him, Reese had proved that he was far more human than anyone and that he was trying to repent his past mistakes by plunging body and soul into the missions that gave new meaning to his life.

He would do everything to save him... including risking his life... including giving his life. For he was certain that if the Machine didn't help him find John, it was because she felt that this mission was too perilous for him. In the same way that she had ordered Root to stop her search when Shaw had disappeared, he was certain that the AI was looking, above all, to protect him. But as his fellow team member had never stopped looking for Shaw, he simply could not consider abandoning Reese. Not after everything they'd been through. Not after he realized how much he loved him.

It's always when life takes someone away we realize how important the person was to us. And this emptiness left by John, this torture linked to his absence, allowed him to put a name on the feelings that tormented him for too long: the need to have John near him, the desire to touch him, the admiration he felt for this man. There was no doubt about that now.

Staring at the shore on the other side of the bridge, Finch vowed to save John and then, as soon as possible, to confess his feelings. Life was far too fragile to pass up this chance to live happily ever after. They both deserved a little happiness. Reassured by this promise, the man felt a little better, despite the cold that struck his face and the anguish that twisted his stomach.

The last time he had been in front of this bridge was three years ago when he'd exchanged himself for Grace. If at that time he had been afraid, it was nothing in the face of the terror he felt at this moment. When he had delivered himself to save his ex-fiancée, he had been reassured by the presence of Reese at his back. At the time of his capture, the _Stay alive, Harold, I will come to save you_ whispered by the agent as a promise, allowed him to hold on and resist Greer's psychological blackmail. He wasn't afraid because he knew his agent would do anything to save him. Only here, things were different. John was no longer behind him, with his brooding gaze and reassuring him with his words like a guardian angel. The angel was grounded, and he had to save him.

Suddenly, two black SUV's moved up the road before stopping with screeching tires in front of the gates blocking the bridge. Finch came out of hiding and presented himself in front of them on the other side of the river.

Six men in black suits quickly exited from the cars. Hand-held weapons and earwigs prominently displayed, the agents were obviously in constant contact with the AI. Two were stationed on either side of the lane near the pillars of the bridge, two others were positioned behind the fence, and finally two flanked one of the vehicles. One opened the door of the vehicle while the other was bending over to help someone out. Harold held his breath, his eyes riveted on the vehicle.

Slowly, very slowly, too slowly, a man came out of the SUV. Harold's heart missed a beat when he caught sight of John. Even from the back, he recognized his broad shoulders, his heavy black coat and his short salt-and-pepper hair. Framed by the two Samaritan agents, Reese bypassed the vehicle and came to face him.

At this distance, Finch couldn't see the expression on his face; nevertheless the man did not seem to be wounded. His gait was still so supple, his clothes were intact, and especially, his face was not bearing any traces of abuse. The computer scientist uttered a huge sigh of relief. Finally, Greer appeared in turn, like the last piece on a chessboard.

The ex-MI6 agent saluted Finch, a smile floating on his lips. On the other hand, John stood very upright and seemed tense, probably quite annoyed at having been trapped. He also had to disapprove of what his boss was about to do. He had always considered himself a soldier, good at obeying and having no particular value. A sacrificial pawn for the good of the game.

"Mr. Finch, our encounters on this bridge are beginning to become a habit," Greer called.

"A very unpleasant habit," clarified Harold without concealing his disgust.

The old man smiled before he continued, "You know the procedure to follow: you advance to the middle of the bridge before continuing with the exchange."

Finch knew the procedure too well. He began to advance while Reese was, with a slight pressure on his back, pushed towards him. The two men walked in silence, Harold trying to capture John's eyes, who kept his head down, ostensibly as if he were ashamed of the situation. After thirty steps, they came face to face. John straightened his head slowly and plunged his gaze into that of his partner. The latter froze and frowned. Reese's eyes, usually so expressive, were dull, cold, like... death. A shiver of fright crossed the recluse's body. Even if John had apparently not been physically tortured, he could have undergone psychological abuse.

Suddenly tires screeched behind him, attracting his attention. He turned and saw Root and Shaw clamber out of the bullet-peppered body of a cab. They tried to advance onto the bridge but the six Samaritan agents aimed their guns at them, halting them in their tracks.

"Harold! Don't go in there! It's a trap!" cried Root, sounding on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"I know," replied Finch simply as he brought his attention to Reese. "I'm doing it for him, to save him."

"He's not to be saved!" yelled Shaw in turn, whose voice vibrated with fear.

Confused, Finch turned to the ex-assassin. For a sociopath, she seemed to feeling multiple and intense emotions.

"He's no longer one of the Machine's agents!" Root tried again, clenching her hands on the closed barrier in front of her.

Finch froze. John is no longer an agent of the Machine? What could that possibly mean? Could it be that..? But an iron fist drew him from his reflections; Reese had just grasped him firmly by the arm and forced him to turn around.

"John? What are you doing?!" asked Finch as the operative conveyed him with authority toward Greer.

But John didn't answer. His face was closed, hard, and inexpressive. He was looking straight ahead as he led Finch to Greer, who watched them with a satisfied smile, relishing the situation. Once he reached his destination, John stopped, as if he were waiting for further instructions. The old man bade him in a dry voice, "Put him in the car."

The operative nodded and obeyed the order without arguing, under Finch's astonished gaze, who was beginning to understand that he was being played.

The old man addressed a nod to the two young women who were watching the scene helplessly before he declared, "Ladies, I believe this is where our paths diverge. You will tell the one who has led you thus far, that Samaritan greets her and that it is eager to find her for a new game of chess." With these words he turned on his heel and went back into his vehicle. Immediately and as one, the Samaritan agents went back into their cars, keeping their weapons trained on the two women. Once everyone was settled, the two SUVs started up and left in a cloud of dust, leaving the women completely devastated.

"John has become an agent of Samaritan," whispered Root, tears at the edges of the eyes.


	6. Betray or be betrayed

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _For information, the title of this chapter refers to a line of dialogue in the Hannibal series illustrating the relationship between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. There are also many other references (you can have fun looking for them but this isn't the main purpose of this text lol). So we switch to the sadistic and perverse side of this fic. From now on, I warn readers that some passages describe scenes of violence_.

* * *

Sitting on the cell's narrow bed, Finch stared at the heavy iron door, on the lookout for the slightest noise. When three Samaritan agents had roughly pushed him in there, he had remained upright, standing in the middle of the room, his heart beating as if it would break in his chest, believing that Greer would come to see him as soon as he arrived. But no one had come. In despair, he then headed to the small berth propped up in a corner just in front of the entrance, and sat down.

To kill time, he had examined his cell with particular interest. It was rather correct and surprisingly comfortable. It resembled the little apartment he had occupied since he became Professor Whistler. In addition to a small bed with an iron frame, the room had a round table framed by four chairs, a small kitchenette, an office with a highly unlikely laptop computer, as well as an extremely well stocked library. The scholar that he was had immediately spotted original editions of classics, La Pléiade in its entirety, as well as the twenty eight volumes of the encyclopaedia. If he was pleasantly surprised by this comfort, Harold couldn't help but think that if he was this well settled, it was that his captivity would probably go on forever. The only clues that reminded him that he was a prisoner were the heavy locked steel door, the lack of a window, the dozens of surveillance cameras installed on the ceiling, and the huge mirror that occupied the whole of one wall. The computer scientist was certain that this glass was actually a one-way mirror designed to monitor all his actions. Finch had the unpleasant impression of being a laboratory rat, observed by Samaritan.

The raw glow of the neon lighting had made him lose track of time. How long had he been waiting here, alone in this cell, as comfortable as it was? One hour? One day? The man couldn't tell. Still, since he had been locked up, someone had brought a meal tray which he had absolutely not touched. Although this was a rather futile gesture of discontent, the food was the only thing he could still control. The hunger strike symbolized his non-submission and resistance. When a woman dressed in a white nurse's blouse had entered to take the tray, Finch had felt a treacherous joy while holding her black gaze and her upset expression. Later the same woman had brought him a cup of tea. By the odour that filled the room, the computer scientist knew that it was Sencha green tea, his favourite; but then again, despite the hunger that twisted his guts and the thirst that dried his mouth, he had not touched his drink, allowing it to inexorably cool.

If he had been treated fairly well so far, Finch wondered whether this enforced solitude was not, in itself, a torture. This silence, his isolation, his abduction, and his captivity put him to torment. All the events of the past few days were constantly jostling in his mind. And like any genius, when his hands were not occupied, his brain took over and turned at full throttle in search of logical explanations for everything that had just happened.

It wasn't so much his abduction that tormented him. He'd known for a long time that Greer and Samaritan sought the Machine, and as it was inaccessible, wanted him, her creator. However, he wondered what was really expected of him. Livia Edwood had hinted that Samaritan wanted him to work for it. What an aberration! What nonsense! He would never put his skills and intelligence at the service of such a project! It was precisely for this reason that he had decided to hide himself by simulating his death. In that way he was no longer afraid for his life or for that of his loved ones.

No, all his thoughts were turned toward John. He'd been reassured to see that his partner hadn't been injured, but John's attitude had completely destabilized him. Why hadn't he proceeded with the exchange as agreed? Why hadn't he joined Root and Shaw in order to continue the fight? Why did he drive him to Greer? Why did he seem to obey Greer? All these questions were jostling in the genius' mind and unfortunately, despite hours of reflection, he still hadn't found any fully satisfactory answers. Maybe Reese was pretending to have joined Samaritan to stay with him and protect him. This would explain why the Machine didn't deem it useful to search for him. He simply wasn't to be saved. However, the knowledge in Greer's hands was an added danger, because if the old man discovered the feelings he felt for John, he would undoubtedly benefit from this weakness to put pressure on him and bring him where he wanted, namely to work for Samaritan. In the end, his partner's plan was more of a risk than a real advantage.

Suddenly a sound drew Finch from his reflections. Someone was unlocking the door. The rattles of keys and the beeps of an electronic lock indicated how carefully the door was sealed. The computer scientist stiffened as he observed Greer entering the cell, straight and proud, like a conqueror. The visitor scrutinized the room at length and paused on the prisoner sitting on the bed. The old man unashamedly examined him, revelling in seeing the anxiety that disturbed the blue eyes hidden behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Finch was stressed to the extreme. Each of their meetings gave rise to particularly strenuous verbal jousts during which Greer forced him to make agonizing choices: Grace or himself, freedom or captivity, life or death. He feared that he would once again have to make a choice against his deep convictions.

He watched the old man who ambled in his cell as if he were verifying the state of the premises. At the end of this exam, Greer took a chair and sat down comfortably against the backrest. Laying his elbows on the table and crossing his fingers in front of him, he plunged his gaze of steel into that of his prisoner and said in a tone dripping with smugness, "Mr. Finch, it's always a pleasure to see you."

"The pleasure is not mutual."

Greer smiled, delighted to see that his prisoner had lost none of his fighting spirit and his sharp repartee. The ex-MI6 officer straightened out slightly in his chair and snapped his fingers. Immediately the door opened, revealing a man in a suit who carried a tray, on which were arranged two cups and a teapot. After having laid his burden on the table, the man disappeared without a word or a glance. With studious gestures, Greer filled the two containers. He replaced the teapot and pushed a cup to Finch before seizing his.

"Your favourite tea."

"Thanks, but, no thanks."

Greer didn't formalize this refusal and blew on his drink to cool it down. After a few seconds, he savoured his tea with unconcealed pleasure. "As always, you have exquisite taste," commented the old man with his slight British accent.

Finch was increasingly struggling to contain his annoyance. He was trembling inwardly in the face of this charade. He hadn't been brought here just to drink tea with Greer!

As if he were reading his mind, the ex-MI6 agent began, "I beg you to forgive us for the discomfort of your trip, but you will easily understand that we had to take every precaution necessary to keep this place secret."

Finch stiffened as he was reminded of the humiliation inflicted by the Samaritan agents during the journey from the Jefferson Bridge to his place of detention. "I found the trip particularly unpleasant indeed," he retorted as he clenched his fists.

It wasn't so much the road that had been uncomfortable but the stop that had been imposed on him. Of course, sitting in the back of a sedan with tied hands and a black hood on his head hadn't been a pleasure, but when the car had finally stopped after several hours of travel, his ordeal had just begun. It had been pulled without the management of the vehicle and led by two officers in a building. Despite the thick black fabric that made him blind and almost deaf, Finch understood that he was in a store. Once the hood was removed, it took a few minutes to regain his wits. Narrowing his eyes to escape the too-aggressive brightness after having been accustomed to the dark, the man had been so disoriented that at first he hadn't understood the orders that the AI agents were barking at him. Losing patience, one of the suited men had violently pushed him into a fitting room and ordered him to undress.

After a strong refusal, Finch had changed his mind after receiving a violent slap. When he had rubbed his sore cheek, he had noticed that his lower lip had split under the impact. Slightly stunned and shocked by this violence, he had remained frozen for a long moment, gazing at his bloody fingers. A strange hot and metallic taste had filled his mouth and tears had blurred his sight. Caught between anger, indignation, and humiliation, he had had to submit to his guardians' demands and had begun to remove his clothes with a trembling hand.

Fortunately for him, one of his jailers had pity and finally pulled the curtain to preserve his modesty. Once he had removed his jacket, his shirt, and his trousers, the recluse had hesitated. A hand had then spread the curtain slightly to seize his clothes. Noting that Finch had not delivered all his effects, the agent promptly reminded him of his orders by making an exaggerated gesture to remove his underwear.

Finch was stiff. With a knotted throat, he had taken off his undershirt, his boxers, and his socks, which he had also given to his supervisors. As naked as the day he was born, the computer scientist waited in the stall, not knowing what this little sadistic game was all about. The fresh air on his bare skin had made him shiver violently. Rapidly the shivers devolved into uncontrollable tremors. The fear, the cold, the confusion, and the shame had become blended, making him gradually lose control of his body. Then suddenly another order had been snapped, this time demanding his glasses.

Harold had rubbed his eyebrows before he resolved to remove the glasses and hand them over. At the end of long minutes, the curtain was once again pulled aside and he was given a pile of new clothes. The recluse had taken them with a trembling hand and remained still. He had touched the suit and had found, not without surprise, that the fabric was of high quality. As he donned them, he had found that they were impeccably tailored, adapted perfectly to his body. When he was dressed, Finch left the fitting room. Extremely nervous and uncomfortable, he'd advanced to the middle of the room under the satisfied and mocking gaze of his guardians. The man who'd slapped him then stepped up to give him a new pair of glasses. The computer scientist took them and put them on his nose. Of course, they were adapted to his eyesight.

The Samaritan agents then put the hood on him again and returned to the car without any further explanation. To his great relief, the rest of the journey had taken place without further stops.

As he recalled this episode, Finch again felt a wave of humiliation and anger overwhelming him. He felt like Marie-Antoinette, forced to get rid of all her Austrian clothes during the crossing of the Rhine because, once married to the Dauphin, she was only to wear French clothes at the court of Versailles.

Greer's slightly mocking voice brought him back to reality. "Do your new clothes suit you? Samaritan sent us your measurements and this suit comes directly from Rome, from the workshop of Gianni, your favorite tailor, I believe."

If Finch had noticed the quality of the fabric and the perfection of its cut, he didn't have to wonder that Samaritan could know not only his measurements, but also his tailor. He hid his surprise behind a contemptuous and haughty attitude. "All these precautions weren't necessary."

"Certainly, but we ignored it, and two precautions are better than one," replied Greer before drinking another sip of tea.

This futile chatter was beginning to seriously irritate Finch. He had bitten the inside of his mouth and clenched his fists; his annoyance threatened to explode at any moment. Suddenly, almost in spite of himself, he yielded and demanded in a dangerously low voice, "Where is John?"

When he saw a little smile creeping up his jailer's face, Finch understood his mistake but kept quiet. Greer had probably understood his impatience to find his partner but he didn't answer immediately, cultivating by this silence, his prisoner's tension. With an unbearable slowness, Greer once again brought his cup to his lips and quietly tasted the aromatic liquid. Only the rattling of the fragile porcelain on the table broke the heavy silence which had invaded the room. Stretched to the extreme, Harold was hanging on the words of the other man, who was smiling instead of answering him.

After too long a time for Finch's taste, Greer finally consented to speak to him.

"Mr. Reese is doing very well."

Behind these rather reassuring words, Finch grasped perfectly the hidden and terrifying meaning of this sentence, which was far from innocent. _Mr. Reese. He knows his name. He knows who he is and knows his past_ , thought the computer scientist with fright. "What did you do to him?" he asked, making sure that he didn't let any of his anguish show.

"Don't worry, we're taking great care of him," replied the old man tersely, rising before he changed the subject. "I hope you're well settled in?"

"I guess it's to you that I owe all this," replied the computer scientist in a contemptuous tone as he watched the other man stroll through the cell while stroking the furniture with his fingertips, as if he was checking the quality.

"At the risk of surprising you, no, I have nothing to do with it. It's to Samaritan that you owe all this."

Finch raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had trouble imagining the AI taking care of its prisoners by giving them such a degree of comfort. "Are all your hostages treated as well?" he asked, trying in a roundabout way to find out whether John was as well settled as he was.

"You aren't a prisoner, but rather an honoured guest," retorted the British man as he leaned carelessly against the work surface of the small kitchen.

The answer disappointed Finch, who would have liked to know where and in what condition his partner was being held. He tried to conceal his disappointment by saying in an ironic tone, "I'm sorry if I don't relish this privilege as I should."

Greer greeted the remark with a little laugh before explaining, "Samaritan has studied you at length. It knows almost everything about you: your measurements, the prescription of your glasses, the decoration of your apartment, your publications as Professor Whistler, your habits, your tastes. You would be surprised by all the information we have amassed about you, despite all your efforts to go unnoticed."

"What a pity it didn't notice how much I am attached to my freedom."

"You will have the opportunity to escape intellectually; we wanted your mind to have something to feast upon during your incarceration: a library. That must remind you of some memories, right?" the ex-MI6 agent asked with a hint of mockery, fingering the covers of the books stored on the shelves.

"I was accustomed to more choices," replied Harold as he remembered the countless works contained in the multiple shelves of his former lair.

"It's true that we haven't been able to restore your old collection, but Samaritan chose the books that make up this library with special care. We hope that you will find your happiness there."

Finch greeted this polite comment with skepticism, but he swallowed the bitter remark he had on his lips. Preferring to avoid unveiling his concern for John again, he patiently waited for Greer to come to the goal of his abduction. But obviously the ex-MI6 agent appreciated his company and continued his chatter.

"We hope you will do well here. Samaritan thought you would be more inclined to accept our proposition in a familiar environment."

Harold could not help laughing in the face of such enormity. "Samaritan has just forgotten two or three little details like windows, an unlocked door, and freedom; but an artificial intelligence can probably not assess the importance of these things."

"Yet Samaritan has been able to define your tastes, your preferences. Your clothing, its cut, its colours, the choice of these works; all these details have been defined by our AI that you despise so much."

"These are just algorithms and statistics," Finch replied with disgust. "It just spits out what it was taught with lines of code, more or less complex."

Greer uttered a little laugh, satisfied because this was exactly where he wanted to bring the conversation. "We would just like you to correct this pitfall."

Against all odds, Finch let out a great burst of laughter. Him? Work for Samaritan? Livia had already told him as much, but the idea seemed so grotesque to him that he had swept the idea under the rug. So it wasn't a joke; Greer was truly proposing that he should perfect Samaritan. "You're joking! I will never work for you!" the computer scientist replied as he gradually resumed his seriousness.

Greer didn't seem fazed by the openly arrogant attitude of his prisoner. On the contrary, a new smile was crossing his face while he was dreamily contemplating the books in the little library. "We have the means to make you bend, but we would prefer not to come to such an extreme," he murmured without looking at him.

"Never!" the recluse replied forcefully, without leaving his gaoler's eyes.

"Funny," the ex-MI6 agent said in an amused voice, "that's exactly what your agent said."

Finch stiffened at the evocation of Reese. But he didn't have time to question himself as Greer turned his keen glance at him while he asked in a voice as sharp as a razor, "Do you know what can destroy a man, Mr. Finch?"

The computer scientist's anxiety went up a notch. He had the unpleasant impression that the conversation was eluding him and slipping inexorably towards a very unpleasant theme, for him as well as for John.

When the recluse kept silent, Greer clarified with obvious sadism, "Destroy him to the point of pushing him to do things totally against his nature?"

Finch gently shook his head as a sign of negation.

A burst of cruelty illuminated the old man's steel-blue eyes as he articulated slowly, "Betrayal."

Unseated, Finch frowned. He had expected a multitude of other answers: torture, suffering, blackmail, the loss of a loved one, but absolutely not treason. Why was he talking about treason? Did he think he was going to betray the Machine to serve Samaritan? Recovering from the surprise, the computer scientist murmured the obvious. "One cannot betray his ideas and true convictions."

Greer continued in a tired voice as if he hadn't heard him, "Treason can destroy as surely as a weapon."

A long silence greeted this last statement. Finch had the impression that he was discovering a new aspect of his enemy. Since they had known each other, the ex-MI6 agent had never seemed so vulnerable. The recluse watched him close his eyes as if he was plunging into a painful episode of his life.

Greer, meanwhile, was more aware of this unveiling than ever. But Finch was more than an adversary, he was also a man he respected for his convictions and his righteousness. So, without hiding, he let one of his faults appear. He plunged back over forty years to relive the deepest and most decisive wound of his life.

In 1973, when he was working for MI6, Greer had been betrayed in the worst way. He, who had been defending his country and values for years, sacrificing his family and putting his life in danger without hesitation, had brutally realised that his superior, Blackwood, was in reality a KGB agent. His Manichean world where everything was organized around rival and opposite notions such as good or evil, freedom or servitude, capitalism or communism, had then brutally collapsed, leaving in its place a field of ruins where the lines were blurred. The utopias and ideals that had guided his life until then no longer existed.

It was at this precise moment that the ex-MI6 agent realized that men were not trustworthy, that it was as easy to turn them as the wind blowing on a weather vane. After a long period of depression during which he had wandered like a shadow in a world he no longer understood, he had gradually ascended the slope by finding another source of motivation.

By contemplating his peers as a spectator, he had come to the conclusion that men, and mankind in general, were not worthy of confidence and were only good at betraying. Betrayal could take different forms and hide behind multiple motivations. You could betray for love, for greed, for interest, for political or religious ideals. Whatever the case, men wounded, killed, stole, plundered, and destroyed to serve their personal interests above all.

Much later, in the 2000s, he had learned about the existence of robots and machines. Skeptical at first, he had nevertheless been able to see the potential of these inventions. They were efficient, reliable, selfless, and above all, unable to betray. They were doing what they had been asked to do without asking questions, choosing after more and more complex calculations, the best possible alternative. It was at that point that he had thrown himself into his quest for an Artificial Intelligence capable of directing mankind with all the neutrality, efficiency, and honesty expected for such a function. With Samaritan there was no risk of corruption or treason. Its purpose was simple: to steer the world efficiently.

"Who betrayed you?" asked Finch in a whisper, conscious of the effrontery of his question for the prisoner he was. But the recluse, driven by curiosity, couldn't prevent his words. It must be said that from the beginning he had been fascinated by Greer. This man was, in many respects, his alter-ego, his nemesis. He was of his generation, had more or less suffered the same trauma, had a remarkable intelligence, and an extremely sharp mind. In short, the man was like his inverted mirror. However, despite their similarities and the same paths, the two men defended radically opposite philosophies, and understanding this fundamental difference was essential for Finch.

"No matter, treason is the worst thing that can happen to a man. It can break him, destroy him and even drive him to madness," replied Greer with annoyance as he took a book from the shelf and distractedly flicked through the pages.

From where he was, Finch could barely see its title printed in golden letters on the old leather cover. Recognizing this classic of English literature, he couldn't help retorting with sufficiency, "Othello wasn't betrayed, Iago made him believe it. It's completely different."

"Treason or the idea of treason is rigorously identical and leads to the same disaster."

"However 'to something bad is good' as the saying goes. A betrayal can also bring forward a beneficial thing. It can be a powerful engine that leads to the destruction of the one who betrayed in the name of justice," retorted the computer scientist as he rose and limped toward the library.

Without saying anything, Greer watched him sweep the shelves as if he were looking for a particular work. Suddenly Finch seized one and handed it to his interrogator with a smile floating on his lips. The ex-agent took the book and read its title in silence before declaring with amusement, "So according to you, Mr. Finch, who of Monte Cristo or Othello will have the final word of this story?"

If this verbal joust was particularly stimulating and informative, Finch was beginning to get tired of this useless waste of time. He then decided to cut the discussion short. "Cease your metaphors, Mr. Greer. I too have been betrayed, and as you can see, I have not sunk into blind vengeance or madness."

Greer's smile widened. He placed the books back on the shelf and took a step towards the computer scientist. Locking his hard gaze onto that of his prisoner, he asked with unhealthy joy, "Who said I was talking about you?"

Finch froze. Throughout the conversation, he had imagined that Greer was talking about him, his feelings and his past. Apparently he was on the wrong track. Who else could he have talked to?

Seeing that the computer scientist was silent, the former British Secret Service agent requested with his distinguished voice, "Work for us, Harold. Allow Samaritan to be autonomous, to reflect and adapt to the image of your Machine, and you won't have to know the destructive consequences of treason on a man dear to your heart."

A deathly silence greeted this cold and implacable proposition. These threats were therefore not intended for him, but concerned John. But what was Greer trying to tell him? Did John betray him? Impossible. Yet a little insidious voice in his mind kept telling him that this was the only explanation for his attitude at the time of the exchange: his dramatic turnaround, his too-firm and almost brutal grip, his submission to Greer's orders. But if that were the case, why would John betray him? Reese had always had an almost blind faith in him, following each of his decisions without a peep and having an unwavering faith in their struggle and the ideals they defended.

Finch felt his certainties melt like snow in the sun. Ignoring his natural prudence, he asked in a trembling, almost imploring voice, "John? What did you do to him?"

The ex-MI6 agent sensed a perceptible panic in the genius' voice and blue eyes. He replied with the peculiar glibness of the men confident of their victory, "You will soon find out, but know that my offer still stands. You have a computer at your disposal. Obviously it is not connected to any network and the cell is a Faraday cage, but you can get to work as soon as you want. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask us."

On these enigmatic words, Greer left the room, leaving Finch completely destabilized. Once outside, the man walked to a small room located right next to the prison. He went in and stood in front of a huge window. From here he had an unobstructed view of the whole cell and could, at leisure, contemplate the effect of his words on his captive. The computer scientist was still standing next to the library, contemplating without actually seeing them, the two books he had just put on the shelf. After several long minutes, he walked like a robot to the bed and sat down with head down and shoulders collapsed. He seemed completely lost.

Suddenly the door of the small surveillance room opened on two Samaritan agents who framed Reese.

"Mr. Reese, please come in," ordered the old man without taking the trouble to turn around.

The two suited men left the room without a word, leaving their boss and agent alone. Greer turned slowly towards his visitor and examined him emphatically. The former CIA operator was as elegant as always in his dark suit. His hair was disciplined, his face unmoved, and his blue gaze still so limpid. Nothing except a small bandage concealed behind his ear and prick marks in the hollow of his arm, betrayed the treatment he had undergone a few hours before. Satisfied with his examination, the Brit asked, "How are you?"

"Better," replied the agent simply in his low and sensual voice.

"Has your discomfort faded?"

"Yes."

"What about your ideas?"

"They could not be clearer."

A smile stretched Greer's lips. This man was exceptional. His recovery was extraordinarily fast, putting the lie to all medical prognoses. Greer then decided to check whether the operation had been as effective as expected. Of course, the lack of time had not allowed them to get to the bottom of things, but the injections of angel dust nullified any risk of rejection. But the consequences of such treatment on the body, and above all, the psyche of the man bore the risk of being irreversible.

"Come closer, please."

Reese stepped forward and stood in front of the window, right next to Greer.

"Do you recognize him?" asked the old man by bringing his attention to his prisoner, who had not moved one iota.

"Finch," murmured the agent as he stared at his partner through the mirror without emotion. Then after a few seconds, John asked in a voice that was still neutral, "Why are you keeping him here?"

"We need him, but for now, he doesn't seem willing to work for us," replied Greer in an equal voice.

"What do you expect from me?"

The Brit turned to the younger man to confront him. He laid a hand on his shoulder in a paternal gesture before explaining with a smile, "You have to convince him. I'm counting on you to be... persuasive."

Reese nodded before asking, "I have carte blanche?"

"Of course, John, I trust you."

A smile slowly crossed the young man's sensual lips before he turned on his heel and left the room in silence. Once alone, Greer brought his attention to the inside of the cell. His heart beating as if to break everything, he waited eagerly and jubilantly for the realization of his plan. "Now the game begins," he murmured.

* * *

Finch was startled when the door of his prison opened again. His heart leapt into his chest as he discovered the tall silhouette of his partner moving into the doorway.

"John!" he exclaimed as he leapt up and limped towards him.

But as he approached his friend, Finch immediately felt doubt creeping into him. Something was wrong. In the details, Reese had absolutely not changed: the same impeccable suit, same haircut, same calm face, and the same nonchalant attitude as he walked into the room. But when the computer scientist sought to capture the eyes of his partner, he found what was wrong: his gaze. His blue eyes were cold and empty, without the shadow of an expression. _What did they say? What have they done to him?_ Harold wondered with fright.

Once face to face, Finch raised a trembling hand to Reese's face, feeling the irresistible need to touch him, as if to make sure he was okay. But just before his fingers reached their goal, John grasped his wrist and shook it forcefully.

"John?! What are you doing?!" moaned the computer scientist painfully.

"Sit down, Finch, and listen to me very carefully," ordered the younger man dryly, releasing his vise-like grip.

Baffled by his companion's attitude, Finch obeyed without arguing, sitting on one of the cell's chairs. With coldness in his belly and his throat tight, he watched Reese kneel slowly before him before plunging his cold gaze into his. A shiver of anguish crossed him when he saw a malicious glow shining in the steel-blue eyes.

"You must join us, you must perfect Samaritan," John announced without preamble, without leaving his eyes.

 _Us?!_ Finch didn't believe his ears. He was totally stunned. His world seemed to collapse around him. John, his partner, his friend, the one who had supported him in all their trials and who had risked his life to save him, was asking him to work for Samaritan?!

As he tried to understand his attitude, Greer's words returned to his memory: _Betrayal can destroy_. This wasn't possible! John couldn't rally with Samaritan! The recluse tried to convince himself of that, but his despair was mounting. His heart beating so strongly that it felt like if would break everything in his chest, Finch leaned forward and whispered as he laid his hand on his partner's cheek, "John, what happened to you? What did they do to you?"

John's skin was soft and warm under his fingers. In any other circumstances, Finch would never allow himself to touch him. But the situation was so desperate that he no longer thought of the consequences of such a gesture. Reese remained as motionless as a statue and did not react to the caress, merely looking at him with his empty eyes.

For a few seconds, time seemed to be suspended. Nothing counted more than this fragile contact between the two men, this connection so tenuous that it could break at any moment. Then a smile illuminated the agent's handsome face. He held out his hand and laid it gently on Finch's cheek. The latter closed his eyes, savoring with pleasure the warmth and tenderness which emerged from this caress. He felt his partner's fingers stroking his skin, before getting lost in his hair. The recluse sighed with well-being by bowing his head against the welcoming palm.

Then, taking him totally by surprise, John seized him brutally by the hair and jerked his head back violently. Struck down by an intense neck pain, the recluse howled as he clung to his agent's arm so as not to fall over. A smile floating on his lips, Reese leaned slowly towards his prisoner and whispered into ear, "I know what you did, Harold. You are the origin of many misfortunes and it's high time to redeem your faults."

The operative backed up slightly to assess the impact of his words on his captive. With his teeth clenched and eyes fogged with tears, Finch was breathless from the throbbing pain that radiated along his spine. But it was not at the neck that he had the most pain, but the heart. He had the impression that Reese had just ripped him up and trampled on him without any remorse. He could feel his cold gaze scrutinizing him, dissecting the least of his emotions and reveling in his suffering. Through the tears that blurred his sight, Harold could see Reese's cold eyes and his little smile in the corner of his mouth, as if he enjoyed the pathetic spectacle he offered.

Then, seemingly bored, Reese brutally released him and straightened up. The younger man was about to make a gesture in his direction, but he abruptly stopped moving. He lifted his head and stared at the mirrored glass, as if he were listening to a mysterious message. After a few seconds of silent dialogue Reese left the room, not without a last glance full of contempt toward his partner, or rather, ex-partner.


	7. So close and yet so far

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _This chapter is a little long because I didn't have the heart to cut it (otherwise I think I would have heard your cries of frustration tinged with hatred as far as my home). To write this chapter, I have documented the conditions of detention of the Guantánamo prison and the so-called reinforced interrogation techniques used there until 2008 (yes, because after that, the U.S. administration said, "But this would look like torture right?!" And so these practices were banned. Just the waterboarding because forced feeding is still used). The 36 Stratagems (or strategies according to the translations) indeed exist. This manuscript written during the Ming Dynasty (1366-1610) on silk and bamboo was found by chance in a bookseller in northern China in 1939 (or 1941 depending on the source). This treatise of 36 proverbs is halfway between philosophy and military art. Finally, the title of this chapter is the title of a song composed by Olafur Arnalds for the series Broadchurch (and yes him again, and no he is not a member of my family). If you want to listen to it, you will find some clues (in reality these are two complementary songs: So Close and So Far). Good, stop with the digression and go read._

 _PS: Once again thanks to those who read my story and who take the time to post a comment, it's always greatly appreciated! Thanks to Isatis for correcting me._

 _Warning: A bit of a violent chapter you will suspect (even if the sado-masochism can have a very erotic appearance). Sorry in advance!  
_

* * *

Greer enjoyed a Havana while observing Reese's exit from the cell with undisguised satisfaction. His little experience was a complete success. Not only did the younger man become a zealous Samaritan agent, but he didn't seem to have any remorse in abusing his ex-partner, despite the sentiments inspired by him. The combined effects of the chip that had been implanted near his brain the day before and the angel dust were of formidable efficacy. This treatment had succeeded in removing all feelings from the agent, allowing him to obey orders without any state of mind. Coupled with his exceptional physical qualities and his formidable military training, man had become a real killing machine. _What an asset for Samaritan but what a pity it was only for so little time_ , thought Greer with regret.

The old man watched his trap closing on his prisoner with delight. For now, everything was going as planned: his opponent was visibly upset. The hardened agent he was immediately saw in Finch a formidable adversary who didn't allow himself to be impressed easily. He'd been able to see that when Finch had been detained two years earlier. Finch had rejected his arguments and his proposals with disdain. Afterwards, he was able to observe the man's composure during the Vigilance mock trial. His tenacity had forced respect and admiration. The man had remained unemotional for long hours until the life of an innocent person was at stake. It was only then that he reacted by abandoning his reserve and revealing his secret. And this was the weakness that Greer intended to exploit.

He once again pulled on his cigar and amused himself by spitting the smoke into cylindrical rings. From where he was, he could read the confusion, the fear, and the pain distorting the form of his captive. Finch was visibly lost and totally disoriented. One of his hands was clenched on the edge of the table while the other was massaging his sore neck. His big blue eyes stared with fear at the door of his cell which had just closed on his torturer. And what a torturer! Greer could not have dreamed better. Treason. Nothing other than that could cause a tough opponent to lose confidence and certainty. He knew only too well what Finch was feeling right now: his whole world was collapsing and he saw no way out.

"Why did you order him to leave?" asked a female voice right behind him.

Without taking the trouble to turn around, the ex-MI6 officer replied in a calm voice, "It was only a small experiment."

"Was it conclusive?" asked Livia Edwood as she walked next to her boss to watch Finch on the other side of the window.

"At all levels," replied the old man tersely without taking his eyes off his prisoner.

Livia did not formalize this half-answer. During the time she worked for Samaritan, she had gotten to know Greer and deal with what little information he deigned to give. She had full confidence in the AI, who was the only one with a global vision of the project she was working for. She was aware that she was just a cog in this immense machine, but it was all the same to her. She had lost faith in mankind the day her father had perished during the 2010 ferry bombing. When Greer had told her that this heinous crime had been planned by her own government, her grief had turned into hatred. At only 23 years old, she had accepted without discussion the latter's proposal to join Decima. Since then, she had put all her skills and strength into the service of Samaritan. More than anything, she wanted to bring down this corrupt government and establish new governance where the AI would govern everything with justice, reliability, and honesty for the general well-being.

"What do we do with him?" she asked by pointing her chin at the man still prostrate on the chair.

"Let him have time to digest what has just happened," replied Greer as he took a new puff of his cigar.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to let Reese handle it?" asked Livia, turning to glance at her neighbour.

With a deliberate slowness, Greer crushed his Havana in an ashtray placed on the window sill and blew more smoke before turning to her. He directed his gaze into that of the young woman before declaring with a smile on the corner of his mouth, "This is our best asset."

Perplexed, the young woman frowned. She was far from sharing the trust of her boss. She had been impressed by Finch's resistance during his captivity. Although today he seemed to be totally under control, she couldn't help but be suspicious.

"What is his role?" she asked, suddenly very curious to know the reasons for such confidence between her boss and Samaritan.

"Do you know the _36 Stratagems_ , Miss Edwood?"

This total change of subject surprised the young woman. Not only did her boss not answer her, but also she had no idea what he was talking about. "No," she murmured in a small voice, ashamed of her ignorance.

"It's a Chinese treatise written during the Ming dynasty that describes 36 tricks on how to defeat an enemy. It gives extraordinarily modern advice on how to win when the opponent is particularly devious."

"Like our prisoner," murmured Livia as she peeked at Finch.

"Quite. I have already tried to attack Finch head-on and this has resulted in a failure. So we have to trick him."

"What do you intend to do?"

"To catch a fish, it is better to disturb the water," quoted the old man with a slight smile while turning around to observe his prisoner. He was satisfied with the fact that Finch was indeed disturbed. All his certainties were collapsing, which reduced his ability to resist. And that was precisely the goal: to make Finch vulnerable in order to make him bend more easily.

"He is lost," pointed out the young woman, who understood the meaning of the proverb.

"But not broken yet. The coup de grâce will be given by our friend."

"Astute, but this assumes that Mr. Reese is perfectly loyal to us."

"I have no doubt about his loyalty. Samaritan and our doctors make sure of it."

"In that case, it's perfect," replied Livia, reassured.

The two Samaritan agents quietly observed the prisoner. The latter had left his chair to lie down on the bed. Lying on the small bunk, still dressed, the man was facing the wall so as to hide his face. Greer decided to leave his supervisory position, believing that there was nothing left to see for tonight. Tomorrow would be another day: a day in which Finch was likely to undergo the worst hardships of his life and realize the magnitude of Samaritan's power.

* * *

Lying on the cell's small bed, Harold was struggling to get his thoughts back in order. The previous events were looping in his mind, leaving him in complete confusion. John, his friend, had joined the ranks of Samaritan and ordered him to accept Greer's offer. If he was stunned by his partner's sudden reversal, it was above all the scorn and hatred that he had seen shining in John's steel-blue eyes that tormented him. Although he knew of his companion's violent past, he would never have thought of bearing the cost of it one day. Reese's openly hostile attitude, his cold words tinged with anger, and especially his brutality had completely disturbed him.

 _Your faults_... What mistakes did Reese want to talk about? There were so many. His whole life was filled with faults and mistakes. Yet he felt he had paid enough of a price. He had been forced to leave his father in a hospice where he died alone. He had to hide and take a false identity to continue his studies. Finally, at the time when he was tasting the simplicity of a normal life by working alongside Nathan and dating Grace, he had to give up that happiness after the ferry bombing that had cost his friend his life. He had been forced to disappear, feigning death in order to protect the life of the one he loved more than anything. _Yes, I paid dearly for my mistakes_ , thought the man bitterly.

Why did John ask him to redeem his faults? What were the faults? What did Samaritan say to Reese during his two days of captivity so that he would make such an about-face? The younger man knew almost every aspect of his life. He was undoubtedly the person who knew him best. Restlessly, Finch rehashed all these questions until the fatigue of his two days spent without sleep took its toll on his strength. The man sank into a heavy and agitated slumber, populated with nightmares where Samaritan achieved its goals and where John, a smile on his lips, put him to death.

A few hours later, a noise woke the computer scientist with a start. He opened his eyes and remained long seconds contemplating the wall in front of him, completely disoriented. Then the events of the previous days returned to his memory with a painful acuity. Cautiously, he turned on his bed to face the door of his cell from which the noise had come. This simple movement awakened his neck pain but he also realized that he was suffering more than usual from the hip. His journey during the previous day through the streets of New York doubtlessly hadn't helped. He sat up quietly and noticed that a tray with a breakfast was waiting for him on the table. A delicious odour of pancakes and tea invaded his cell; awakening his stomach and making him salivate with envy.

These meals were all landmarks that allowed the computer scientist to not lose track of time. A breakfast meant that it had been almost 24 hours that he was in Samaritan's clutches. He secretly hoped that Root and Shaw would continue the search to come and save him. Even if he had urged the Machine to always put the missions ahead of his own life, whatever happened, this situation was different. John was now in the equation. If he could envisage without any problem to sacrifice himself in the name of his ideas and the values he defended, he didn't want to drag his agent into his own downfall. Because for him, John was still his agent. Even if Samaritan had managed to persuade him to join its camp, Finch was convinced that it was a manipulation to reach him and make him more vulnerable. So he had to fight on two fronts: not obey Greer by refusing to perfect Samaritan, and trying to give Reese his mind back.

With this decision, Finch was slightly more confident. He stood up and walked with a hesitant step towards the corner of his cell which had been furnished with a small bathroom. Besides a small shower and a sink, the space also had a toilet. In the image of classic prison cells, the whole was separated from the rest of the room by a small one-meter high wall allowing the protection of his modesty and to give him a little privacy. Having no other choice, he decided to relieve himself despite the unpleasant impression of being watched. When he was finished, he flushed the toilet and stood in front of the sink to refresh himself. After removing his glasses, he turned the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. He seized a towel that had been arranged right next to it and dried himself with care, finding in his daily gestures a semblance of normalcy.

But when he straightened his head to contemplate his reflection in the mirror, he read on his face the stigmas of fatigue, anguish, and violence that he had undergone for two days. His features were drawn and his eyes were dark. His lower lip still bore the mark of the slap he had received the day before. He did some stretching exercises to relieve the stiffness of his neck and rubbed his painful hip. Sighing with frustration, but still in no way determined to obey Greer's injunctions he decided to conceal his suffering as best he could so as not to offer signs of weakness to his enemies. So he lifted his chin and arranged his clothes in order to appear to his advantage. He tightened his tie, readjusted the collar of his shirt, arranged his jacket and then passed his fingers through his hair to discipline it. He put on his glasses and inspected his reflection again in the mirror. It was better. Even though he still looked tired and bruised, he seemed less lost and more combative.

Satisfied, he decided to return to sit on his bed to wait for the next events. He suspected that Greer or another of his minions would soon visit him. But as he passed the tray, he could not stop his belly from grumbling, reminding him that he had not eaten since the day before. Ignoring the call of his stomach, he settled on his little bunk, pointing his gaze at the door of his cell.

On the other side of the mirror, Greer watched his prisoner attentively. Despite his apparent calmness, the man was somewhat annoyed by Finch's attitude. Not only did the computer scientist not appear to be impressed by the threats and still wouldn't get to work, but on top of that, he suspected him of doing a hunger strike. The Brit pinched his lips in annoyance. He was going to have to hustle Finch a little. He had no time to waste. The more hours that passed, the more likely the plan would fail. Reese might no longer be able to carry out the mission that Samaritan had entrusted to him. He also feared a Machine intervention. He knew how much the AI was attached to its creator despite the latter's reservations. He hadn't forgotten that she had almost sacrificed herself to save him, as well as her _assets_. The knowledge that was in his hands risked _unleashing hell_... So he had to act as soon as possible.

"So? Did the night bring any advice to our prisoner?" asked Livia in an ironic tone as she looked through the glass.

"Not as I hoped," replied Greer with honesty.

"What do you intend to do?"

The old man sketched a little smile in the corner of his mouth before turning to her, "Set a fire and contemplate it from the other shore." With this Chinese proverb, the man left the room, his cup of tea in his hand. Curious to see her boss at work, Livia turned to the glass, a ravished smile floating on her lips. She didn't wait long before seeing Greer enter the prisoner's cell.

"Let's see what you're capable of," whispered the young woman, crossing her arms on her chest.

* * *

Finch instantly stiffened when he heard the door of his cell unlock. In the end, his wait had been short-lived, which proved to him, as if it were still necessary, that he was being observed. The computer scientist tried to calm the frantic beats of his heart and hide his anxiety behind a mask of coldness and hostility as he watched Greer enter the room. The old man was always so relaxed and nonchalant. He was closely shaved and had changed his suit. His face was restful as he moved to the same place as the day before. He placed his cup of tea beside the tray and pointed his steel gaze at that of his captive.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Finch?"

"I'm surviving," he replied with a certain fatalism.

Greer cracked another smile and took the cup that was waiting on the tray. He filled it with Sencha green tea and pushed it to Harold. He felt like he was living a surreal scene. To an outside observer, one would think they were two friends chatting quietly around a hearty breakfast. Only the heavy silence and the sharp glances that they lanced testified to the heavy tension between the two men.

"Your tea," announced the Brit.

"I'm not hungry," replied Finch trying to ignore the muffled rumblings of his stomach.

But Greer didn't ignore it. With a smirk, the man conspicuously moved his tea to his lips and savored it for long seconds, as if to taunt his starving prisoner. "I know what you're trying to do," he said, resting his cup on the table with a dry clink.

"And, what am I trying to do?" demanded Finch by feigning innocence.

"Your pitiful avoidance of food. The only thing you're going to win is forced feeding."

Finch stiffened, as he had heard about this frequently used practice on the Guantánamo Bay prisoners who attempted to hunger strike. He had no doubt that Greer would use this painful and degrading technique of introducing a tube through an inmate's nose to his stomach to force him to ingest a meal and keep him alive by all means.

A silence as heavy as lead greeted this threat. The two men defied each other for long seconds. Finch held the look of his abductor without flinching, but hunger and thirst nested painfully his stomach.

 _After all, it's just pancakes and tea_ , thought Finch, letting his gaze drift toward the tray. At the mere sight of the succulent little pancakes dripping with maple syrup, he felt his taste buds awaken and his stomach growl again. After a long sigh, the recluse rose, a little ashamed to capitulate so quickly but also aware that he had to be in full possession of his faculties to resist.

He took his place in front of Greer and looked at the cup that had been presented to him. A strange detail attracted his attention: the level of his tea seemed slightly bent as if the ground was inclined. He decided not to let any trace of his suspicion appear and seized the cup with a trembling hand. After blowing on the drink, he purposely sipped with a sigh of contentment. Just like his clothing, the tea was of quality.

Greer did not leave Finch's gaze, savoring his capitulation with a smile. He hoped that this would be the first in a long series. So he decided to press his advantage and asked in an even voice, as if he were talking about any business contract: "Have you thought about my proposal?"

Finch abruptly rested his cup on the table before answering dryly, "My answer didn't seem to be clear enough for you?"

"You could have changed your mind with regard to the elements... new ones that were presented to you later," explained the old man with another smile.

Finch immediately felt uncomfortable as he understood the allusion to his partner. Masking his distress behind a deliberately provocative attitude, the computer scientist seized a pancake before biting it with good appetite. He chewed for long seconds as he watched his opponent over his glasses before swallowing his bite. He knew that his behaviour was childish and even dangerous, but he gloated to see Greer hanging on his answer. He could see the wrath illuminating his blue eyes and his fingers twitching on the handle of his cup. How good it was to take back, even for a brief moment, control of the situation. Finally, the computer scientist deigned to respond by articulating each of his words, "Absolutely not."

Greer didn't conceal his disappointment before sighing, "What a pity. I would've thought that, in the image of your partner, you would understand the importance of our fight and join our ranks."

Finch took advantage of this opening to ask the question that had been burning his lips since the day before, "What did you do to him?" he asked with an even voice despite his heart that was drumming in his chest.

Greer seemed to be amused with this question and answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "Mr. Reese opened his eyes to the reality of the world around him."

"Samaritan is doubtlessly no stranger to this abrupt turnaround."

Greer ignored the commentary and continued his speech. "You have found a remarkable man to undertake your missions. But the John you were using was like a rough diamond: beautiful but without real value. Just like your Machine, you bridled him so much that he couldn't fully express himself. Samaritan shaped him to make him the most precious of our agents. He can finally talk about all the anger and violence that slumbered in him for years. We're very fortunate that he gives us his incredible physical qualities, his exceptional skills, and above all his loyalty, a rare quality, in light of the many betrayals he has suffered."

Finch listened to the other man silently. He knew that this kind of speech wasn't innocent. He was certain that his interrogator wished to direct the conversation to a specific subject. His doubts were confirmed when, after a slight pause during which he finished his tea, Greer resumed his tirade by plunging his cold gaze into the suspicious one of Finch.

"Upon careful reflection, John is undoubtedly the one who suffered the most betrayals. First the army that sent him to Afghanistan, and then to Iraq for false reasons." Greer interrupted himself, put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, as if he were about to divulge an important secret. "Between us, everyone knew that Saddam Hussein didn't manufacture weapons of mass destruction," he murmured ironically before resuming, "Subsequently, the CIA betrayed him by sending him to retrieve a so-called computer virus from Ordos. In fact, you know as well as I do that it was a suicide mission that John wasn't supposed to escape. But you are probably the one who deceived him most."

"I?!" exclaimed Harold as he leapt from his chair to confront the enormity of the assertion.

Greer didn't let himself be impressed by this strike and replied with a British aloofness, "Yes, your betrayals probably had the most devastating effects on Mr. Reese."

"I never cheated John," disagreed the computer scientist by articulating each word as if to better make them penetrate the head of his interrogator.

"Are you sure?" asked Greer by raising an eyebrow.

Sitting down again, Finch held the look of his jailer before answering in a voice vibrating with emotion, "Absolutely."

No, he never lied to him. From the beginning of their collaboration, he had explained to him the purpose of their missions and had even revealed to him the existence of the Machine. Of course, he hadn't revealed everything about his past. He had concealed the existence of Grace and Dillinger, the origin of his wounds, the bombing of the ferry, the times when they had crossed well before the beginning of their partnership... But these oversights were, above all, intended to protect him, not to manipulate him.

Surreptitiously, almost to his core, doubt crept into his veins like a poison. And if Samaritan had used his silences as so many betrayals? What if the AI had manipulated and reinterpreted the facts to mislead John? No, impossible! Reese would never fall into such a rude trap. And yet... he couldn't deny the fact that John had brutalized him last night and ordered him to join the Samaritan ranks.

It was possible and even very probable that John had been brainwashed. The Samaritan agents had tried to do the same thing to Shaw. They had to manipulate him to introduce doubt into his mind, make him believe a betrayal on his part in order to push him to join their ranks. Yes. That was the only logical explanation! The only thing Finch couldn't explain was the method used. How did Samaritan manage to do in two days with John, what it had failed to do with Shaw in several months? There had to be something else... Greer's voice drew him from his reflections.

"Yet Mr. Reese has decided to rally our cause because he has lost all confidence in man, and especially in you. He knows that Samaritan will never betray him. His role is to convince you to join our cause."

"I will never work for Samaritan," insisted the computer scientist in a slightly trembling voice, as if he felt in advance the trap closing on him.

"Well," sighed Greer with a falsely bored voice, "in this case, know that John will fail his mission."

Finch frowned, not seeing absolutely where his interrogator was coming from.

"Do you know what happens to the soldiers who fail?" continued the old man smoothly.

The computer scientist felt a shiver rising along his spine while a cold terror crept into his veins. Of course he knew the fate reserved for vanquished soldiers: death. Spotting a flaw in the Brit's threatening discourse, Finch couldn't help noting ironically, "I thought that Samaritan never betrayed. Admitting that killing one of its agents in case of failure, is a rather expensive cost."

Greer had a little laugh before he answered, "John is a soldier. He knows his mission and he will do everything to carry it out. His goal is to convince you to work for us. In case of failure, Samaritan was very clear with him. Therefore there is no deception; he knows what to expect. You will also notice that when your life is at stake, the motivation is only greater."

Finch felt like he had been struck by lightning. So this was the agonizing choice he dreaded from the beginning: not working for Samaritan meant John's death. But to work for that cold AI, without soul or moral code, would be tantamount to condemning mankind to a life of servitude, without freedom, and without free will. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead, the only sign of the extreme tension he suffered.

This detail did not escape Greer who whispered in a dangerously soft voice, "Well, I see we understand each other."

On this phrase that sounded like a knell, the old man rose and left the room, leaving Finch alone in the face of this impossible choice. Staring at the door that had just closed without actually seeing it, the genius was thinking at full speed. He turned the problem around in every way, but no solution was to be found. The future seemed to him suddenly to be very dark. He was more alone than ever and he could, for the moment, count only on himself. But as he was concentrating, a tiny glimmer of hope appeared. It was small, fragile, but it existed and the genius was planning to exploit it well. Clenching his fists, he murmured in a barely audible voice:

"I could bring him back to reason."

In a second, this faint murmur was relayed by the multiple microphones and surveillance cameras installed in the cell. In a gigantic server room, the all-powerful eye of Samaritan assessed the threat that Finch's project could represent. After acute calculations, the result fell like a cleaver, cold and relentless: 13%.

Instantly this number was displayed on Greer's cell phone. The man couldn't hide a smile as he contemplated the percentage that flashed red on the screen of his phone. So, Finch had decided to fight against his partner. Interesting, although his chances were infinitesimal.

He put his cell phone in the pocket of his trousers and then resumed his observation post behind the glass. "Bring Mr. Reese into our prisoner's cell," he ordered Livia, who was still patiently waiting by his side.

"Right," she replied immediately as she left the room.

* * *

Ten minutes later, when the door of his cell opened again, Finch was not surprised to see the tall silhouette of his partner advance into the room. Always impeccable in his dark suit, he wore the same unmoved face, the same unfeeling look, and the same smile as the day before. Unlike him, who was physically and mentally exhausted, the agent seemed perfectly rested and relaxed.

However, the genius had absolutely not expected to see him enter his cell framed by two Samaritan agents. Why was he accompanied? Maybe Greer didn't have as much confidence in him as he'd claimed? But this reassuring thought was soon swept away by a new anguish. It was going to be much more difficult for him to reason with Reese in the presence of these two chaperones.

Nevertheless, the recluse held onto his courage with both hands. He inhaled deeply and then rose and headed straight for his partner. The latter watched him approaching in silence.

"John," murmured Finch as he posted himself within a metre of the agent.

"Finch," replied the other man mechanically before continuing, "I was told that you were still not willing to help us."

"That's right," whispered the computer scientist cautiously, trying to capture Reese's gaze.

"Perhaps I didn't show myself to be persuasive enough?" the operative sighed with boredom.

"I fully understood what you expected from me, but my answer remains 'no'."

"That doesn't surprise me, coming from you," commented the younger man as he took a step forward in an openly aggressive posture.

But Finch didn't let himself be intimidated and didn't move. He confronted without flinching the still inexpressive blue eyes before pleading, "John, Samaritan is manipulating you."

"Really? It's true that you know how to manipulate," interrupted Reese with contempt.

And even before Finch could say or do anything, John gave a nod to the two agents who had accompanied him. Immediately the two men advanced, grabbed Finch by the arms and dragged him to the table just behind them. By reflex, the recluse called to his agent for help, as he had so often done in the past. But soon his desperate calls died on his lips when he met the younger man's satisfied gaze. Obviously, the two minions were obeying his orders. The computer scientist realized with horror that the Samaritan agents were not there to watch him, but to assist Reese in his dirty work. Once against the table, the men swung it back to lengthen it. They then tied his wrists to the legs of the table with cords.

Finch found himself in a very uncomfortable situation; his arms in a cross position and his legs hanging in the air. His neck and hip pain didn't allow him to resist, and so he waited anxiously for the rest of the events.

"You may leave, gentlemen," ordered John as he slowly approached his prisoner.

The two agents obeyed without arguing and left the two ex-partners alone. Despite the fear that twisted his guts, the computer scientist saw the opportunity to bring Reese back to reason. "John, don't listen to them, Samaritan is playing you."

"As you played me," replied the agent, once again staring at him contemptuously.

"How?" asked the recluse, torn between curiosity and anxiety.

But Reese didn't answer. He walked to the bathroom in the corner of the cell and seized the towel that Finch had used a short time earlier. He then went to the kitchenette and opened the fridge to take a large bottle of water. Arms loaded, he returned to the table to put these unusual objects down.

The computer scientist was observing these actions without understanding, but he had a bad feeling. His heart leapt into his chest when his partner's hands lay gently on each side of his head. He held his breath as he watched John leaning slowly towards him to stare at him with a disturbing intensity. Finch couldn't stand his cold eyes and looked away. That's when he spotted a small bandage behind his companion's ear.

Here was the proof he had been waiting for! Although Shaw had been relatively discreet about the conditions of her detention, she had told him about the simulations she had undergone, including the insertion of an electronic chip near her brain to make her more docile. Reese had clearly suffered the same fate. On the other hand, the genius still didn't understand how they had managed to control him within such a short time, the veteran soldier, the former CIA Special Operations officer who had been tortured multiple times and never broke.

"You are in large part responsible for my misfortunes, Finch. Was it to redeem your mistakes that you offered me this job?" he whispered in a dangerously soft voice.

But Finch knew him well. He knew that under this apparent calm was a cold anger. "What do you mean?" he asked in a very small voice, aware that the slightest spark could cause the other man to explode.

John's eyes looked troubled as if he was plunging back into the painful memories of his past. "It was to recover the source code of your Machine that I was sent on mission to Ordos, that mission that ruined my life."

"How so?" murmured Finch in a whisper.

"It was because of that mission that I couldn't arrive in time to save Jessica. It was because of that mission that the CIA sought to eliminate me. That is all your fault, Finch."

"That's... That's not true," spluttered the recluse, at the height of confusion. Yet, when he thought about it, John was right. It was indeed _his fault_ that his partner had been sent to Ordos, with all the consequences resulting therefrom.

John spotted his former boss' dilemma and a smile crossed his lips. He straightened up and took off his jacket before laying it carefully on the backrest of a chair. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt. Incredulous, the computer scientist watched him undress in silence. He had the unpleasant impression that the operative was preparing to get to work. Once at ease, John climbed onto the table in a fluid movement and positioned himself astride Finch, who felt panic invading him.

Sitting on the belly of his prisoner, John gazed upon him with a mixture of anger and disgust. He leaned slowly towards him and murmured against his ear, "Who are you trying to convince? Me or you? Admit that you've always been on your own. Even when we were working together, you always deliberately left me out of the loop, preferring to follow your ideas without worrying about mine."

"That's not true; I've always made sure to protect you. That's why I didn't give you all the information."

"How convenient," the young man said, amused. "You've always been suspicious, Finch. You don't trust anyone. Isn't it tiring in the long run? Don't you want to let go and rely on a totally reliable and loyal entity?"

"How can you be so blind?" muttered the computer scientist as he pulled on the ropes to try to loosen them.

"Me?! Blind?! On the contrary, Samaritan opened my eyes," replied Reese with the strength of conviction.

Finch froze as he recognized the words spoken a few moments earlier by Greer. And since he didn't believe in coincidence, this little detail proved to him what he already suspected: Reese had indeed undergone a brainwashing. He then decided to play his cards on the table, intending to provoke the fury of his jailer. "Samaritan brainwashed you, as it tried to do to Shaw! That bandage you have behind your ear proves it! I would know."

"Shut up!" ordered the agent, slapping him with the back of his hand.

Finch choked back a cry of surprise and suffering. Under the violence of the shock, his head was brutally thrown sideways, causing a sharp pain to his neck. The characteristic taste of blood invaded his mouth as his wounded lip had begun to bleed again. Indifferent to the marks of suffering and panic in the recluse, John seized him brutally by the throat and slowly tightened his grip. Unable to breathe, the recluse began to struggle with the energy of despair, opening his mouth in search of oxygen.

But far from releasing him, the younger man seemed to enjoy his distress as he bent over again to whisper next to his ear in a voice shaking with contained rage, "Shut up, Finch. You are so smug, so arrogant, that you think that all those who disagree with you are stupid, are blind. Don't you think the problem could have come from you? Perhaps it's you who has gone the wrong way. I will make you work for us, either voluntarily or forcibly."

Finch opened his mouth to speak but could only manage a faint wheeze. With his eyes bulging, he gazed in horror at the man he loved with his whole being, strangling him with a methodical coldness. There he was, the CIA killer that Samaritan had freed from his chains. From now on, nothing prevented him from killing.

Finch groaned more and more faintly as he suffocated. His field of vision began to shrink and his strength left him. He stopped struggling, and looked at John one last time before sinking into a bottomless chasm. When he closed his eyes, tears escaped and slowly rolled down his cheek. These weren't tears of pain, but sorrow. It was sad to see his partner like that, cold, deadly, empty of all sentiment. He knew the real John was a good, honest man. But just before he lost consciousness, Reese loosened his vise-grip. Immediately, the recluse inhaled large gasps of air.

"Don't worry, I won't touch your hands, nor your face," the younger man reassured him as he wiped the blood flowing from his captive's lip with his thumb.

Gradually returning to his senses, the computer scientist was seized by the contrast between the words of incredible cynicism and this gentle gesture, almost tender. Reese's next action confirmed his impression.

"What is your biggest fear, Finch?" asked John, staring at him insistently.

The recluse kept his silence, still holding his gaze.

Reese reflected for a moment before proposing, "Drowning? Since your brothers threw you into a deep pool to teach you how to swim, you've been afraid of water, haven't you?"

Finch couldn't hide his surprise. How could he know that? The only person he had entrusted with this intimate detail of his childhood was Carter. But Joss was no more. After long seconds of silence during which the recluse stared at Reese with fear and surprise, he asked in a weak voice, "How... How do you know that?"

John's steel eyes flickered before resuming their metallic sheen. This change was tiny and extremely furtive, but Harold could have sworn he had seen sadness veil his partner's gaze. He began to have hope. Maybe the real John wasn't dead. Perhaps he was still there, hidden in the back of his mind that had been tortured by Samaritan?

"Your silence and your secrets have compelled me to use many tricks. I put bugs on you. I heard the confessions that you made to Carter, Fusco, Shaw, and even Root. I was so disappointed that you entrusted yourself to them rather than to me." Reese's voice was weak, almost plaintive.

For the first time since their confrontation, the recluse was certain that these confessions were perfectly honest and he was very disturbed. His heart began to pound when John's hand stroked his cheek gently, almost lovingly.

"I liked it so much that you considered me a friend, Finch, that you entrusted yourself to me, that you trusted me to the point of telling me the highlights of your life," continued the younger man, allowing his fingers to venture into Finch's hair.

"I trusted you; I just wanted to protect you."

"Protect me?!" repeated Reese. "But my role was to be in the field for your sacrosanct Numbers! What a funny way to protect me! Admit that you preferred to serve your Machine, your Numbers, and your missions! You've always put your interest before that of others, and even more than mine! But it's over, Finch! I'm no longer your _loyal dog_ or your _gorilla_ as Root rightfully would say."

"That's wrong, you're so much more than that," pleaded Finch, tears in his eyes.

"So prove it to me. Trust me and work for Samaritan," repeated the young man in a softer voice.

Finch closed his eyes. He was dying to prove to John how much he trusted him. But what he was asking for was purely impossible. So it was with death in his soul that he replied, "You know very well that I can't. If I perfected Samaritan, mankind would lose its liberties, its free will."

At these words, Reese's attitude changed dramatically. His face became dispassionate again, his look hard, and a disturbing smile appeared on his lips. "Very well," he said in a dry tone. He seized Finch's tie and loosened it slowly. He then discarded his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt.

"What are you doing?" asked Harold with a voice altered by fear and misunderstanding.

John slowly spread the sections of the shirt and placed his hands on the collar of Finch's undershirt before whispering without leaving his eyes, "Do you know how many times I dreamed of doing this?"

"Do what?" asked the recluse at the height of confusion.

John smiled frankly. It was no longer a cold or ironic smile but a real smile: a charming smile that the younger man usually reserved for Zoe or Iris. Finch's heart leaped into his chest. In other circumstances, he would have been delighted to be the recipient of such a smile. But presently, tied to this table, probably watched by Greer behind the glass and by Samaritan through the multiple cameras, he was terribly embarrassed by this too-intimate touch, by that too-sensual smile and by those too-ambiguous gestures.

On the other hand, Reese didn't seem at all embarrassed by the situation. He even seemed to take a lot of pleasure in undressing his prisoner. Then, taking him totally by surprise, Reese yanked the fragile cotton fabric that tore and revealed his torso.

"Let's see what lurks beneath the layers of expensive clothes," muttered John as he let his gaze drift to the captive's chest.

Again, Finch was destabilized by John's attitude that oscillated between tenderness and violence. His breathing accelerated when he felt the other man's hand touch his skin, to stop on his left pectoral.

"I always wanted to know if a heart beats under this cold shell," Reese whispered in a hoarse voice. He lifted a wary eyebrow and his smile widened. "But it looks like yes, there is a heart... And it beats very quickly. You are very human, finally," concludes Reese in a breath.

"More than you think."

"Well, let's see what your limits are." On these words, the man seized the towel he had placed next to them a few minutes earlier. "I've always been very good at killing men; you've already realized that even if you have expressly forbidden me to do so, but you haven't seen all my skills." Then Reese leaned toward Finch again, who held his breath. John was so close that Finch could feel his breath against his ear and his hair tickling his cheek. "I am also very good at bending a man, cracking his will, breaking him until he gives me everything I want."

"Don't do this... Please..." begged the computer scientist, wide-eyed with fright as John removed his glasses.

"You forced me, Harold," sighed the agent in a falsely grieved voice, and added with a bit of irony, "Did you know that what I am about to do was perfectly legal until 2008? It was... What was the exact term already? Oh, yes, a reinforced interrogation. What a nice term to describe torture, isn't it? Our government never lacks imagination to achieve its ends, right?"

Suddenly Finch understood why the table was slightly slanted. John was going to make him undergo a waterboarding - that is, a mock drowning, a formidable practice frequently used by the CIA to make terrorists talk in the Guantánamo prison. Panic took hold of him and he pulled on the cords to try to extricate himself. Reese uttered a sadistic chuckle at this vain and hopeless attempt to break free, and then put the wet towel on his face. He grabbed the cold water bottle and began to empty it gently on Finch's face.

Seized by the frigid temperature of the water, the man at first had his breath cut off. Then, when the stupor passed, he tried to breathe. But instead of inspiring air, it was water that he inhaled through his nose and through his mouth. Harold struggled more urgently to try to escape the flow. After five seconds, Reese replaced the bottle on the table and removed the towel from his prisoner's face. The latter coughed and vomited some of the water he had just swallowed before attempting to resume breathing.

"So? Are you willing to help us?" Reese asked.

"N... Never," Finch hiccupped before vomiting again.

John raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed Harold. On average, a member of the military holds only 14 seconds before he cracks. I am curious to see how long you will hold before begging me to stop." On these words he placed the linen on Finch's face and began pouring water again. Finally, it took fewer than seven seconds for the recluse to beg him to stop.

"S... Stop... Stop it..."

John stopped and lifted the towel again. After vomiting again, Finch surrendered and whispered in a flat voice, "Okay, I will perfect Samaritan."

A broad smile illuminated the agent's handsome face. He descended from the table and pulled a knife out of his trouser pocket. At the sight, Finch's blood curdled. He uttered a huge sigh of relief when he saw the younger man severing his bonds. When he tried to get up, he noticed that his muscles were paralysed and that his strength had completely disappeared. He then rolled gently to the side to once again spit a mixture of water and mucus. Exhausted and seeking to recover his breath, he remained lying on the table, under Reese's unemotional gaze.

It was then that the agent did a very surprising new thing. He approached Finch and helped him sit up by holding him by the arm and supporting his back. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked in a soft voice against his ear.

Finch raised his head and was surprised to see a glimmer of anxiety disturbing John's blue eyes.

"Yes," spluttered the captive as he tried to rise. But scarcely did his feet touch the ground that Harold felt the room revolve around him. He wavered dangerously and avoided falling only by catching onto Reese's shoulders. Immediately he felt the powerful arms of his partner tighten around him and hold him against his chest. The computer scientist froze. He could feel John's strength, his familiar smell, his breath in his hair... Not knowing how to react to this spontaneous embrace, Harold stood still and waited, his heart beating as if to break out of his chest. It was then that he heard a faint murmur against his ear...

"Harold... I..."

His head buried in the hollow of his agent's shoulder, Finch held his breath. He couldn't believe his ears. This voice quivering with emotion, this hesitating whisper, almost begging, these arms holding him desperately against him... Could it be that..?

But this lull was short-lived. John suddenly stiffened and brutally pushed him against the table. He took a step back and regarded him for long seconds before deciding to speak. "Well, I'll let you get to work. I'll come back at the end of the day to check that you have kept your word. If this isn't the case, we'll resume our lovely little conversation." He then turned his heel, seized his jacket as he passed and then left the room.

All the nervous and physical tension that had accumulated in Finch suddenly caved in on him. His body began to tremble uncontrollably and his legs crumpled under his weight. He collapsed on a chair, took his head in his hands and began to cry silently, totally indifferent to being observed.

* * *

On the other side of the glass, John Greer regarded the scene with a mixture of satisfaction and doubt.

"I'm very impressed, your plan worked perfectly," Livia commented with a broad smile.

The old man made no comment, as he was far from sharing the young woman's optimism. He once again glanced at his cell phone and frowned. A new number flickered on its screen: 25%. He brought his attention back to the captive and pinched his lips in a rictus of annoyance. This Pyrrhic victory left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. In the future, he must redouble his vigilance.


	8. When the Gods get involved

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _Meetings accumulate and suddenly the delays also... I would like to thank the commenters that allow me to resist my blues and author discouragement. I know this story is different from the others. It's less Rinch (even if the frame remains) and darker: it's deliberate. Know that the best compliment you can give me is to tell me that it looks like an episode of the series! I am extremely touched! Good reading, all!  
_

* * *

Root suppressed a yawn and passed her hand through her messy hair. She was beginning to feel evident signs of fatigue and was increasingly struggling to focus on the images that were marching across the screens in front of her.

It must be said that since Finch's abduction the day before, she hadn't really rested. Once the Samaritan agents had left, she and Shaw had fled directly to the abandoned subway station that had been serving as their lair for over a year, to begin their search. Determined to find and then free Finch, they had begun to trace the route of the kidnappers.

It didn't take long for the hacker to find and follow the three black SUVs thanks to the very tight mesh of the video surveillance network of the northeastern United States. They were far from going unnoticed. Astonishingly, the Samaritan agents hadn't even bothered to hide, or at least, to cover their tracks. They could have separated or used secondary roads, but no. Well aligned, they had travelled briskly on a fast lane to Winchester, a small town in Virginia, as if they wished to be followed. But once they arrived in this small village of 20 000 souls, things had suddenly become more complicated.

The three cars had parked in front of a male fashion store located on the main street. By zooming in, the hacker had seen the suited men gently extricate Finch from a vehicle and push him inside the building. When she saw her friend, Root's heart tightened. With his head concealed in a dark canvas bag, the recluse advanced with a hesitating step, supported by two agents who held him firmly by his arms.

"Why did they stop in this backwater?" Shaw whispered, sitting on the bench file just behind her partner, as if she had read her thoughts.

Root didn't reply, busy typing commands on the keyboard in order to find a view from inside the store. But the shop had no internet connection, no surveillance cameras. So she couldn't know what was going on inside. So they had to hold their horses and wait patiently for the agents to deign to leave. Fortunately for them, just thirty minutes later, the men and their prisoner had exited. Root had breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Finch's fragile silhouette, but Shaw's eye had been attracted to a completely different detail.

"The bastards," she whistled between her clenched teeth.

"What is it?" asked Samantha, suddenly worried.

The slim brunette left her perch and stationed herself just behind Root's seat. Indicating the file with one hand, she explained in her low and monotone voice, "They forced him to change clothes to verify that he wasn't wearing any bugs. I think we're going to have more trouble tracking them from now on."

Root became tense when she perceived her friend's unease. But she quickly resumed her work. She didn't have a pessimistic nature, so instead of giving in to panic, she preferred to lighten the situation with one of her usual remarks. "You forget that nothing escapes our very dear friend," she said as she rotated the chair to face her partner.

But this sentence didn't have the desired effect. Shaw slowly diverted her gaze from the monitors to lock onto her friend's face. She laid her hands on the armrests and bent over to the hacker with a sarcastic smile, "You speak well of this friend who doesn't want to save John, and who ordered you not to look for me when I was in Samaritan's clutches."

Although the tone had been ironic, Root fully grasped the message. Shaw was angry. Angry at the Machine that she no longer trusted. Angry at her, who had once again obeyed blindly by not looking for Reese more actively in order to protect Finch. The hacker's beautiful brown eyes wavered under the accusation. She felt guilty. The result had been brilliant! The two men were now in the hands of Samaritan.

No longer able to bear her companion's piercing gaze, Root turned around to continue her attention to the screens and, as if to redeem herself, had thrown herself further into the search for their friends.

On the monitors in front of her, she could see the agents brusquely pushing the recluse into a car. As soon as the agents were settled, the convoy had left in a cloud of dust. It had crossed the small town at high speed, not worrying about passersby, cyclists, or civilian vehicles who roamed quietly on this beautiful Tuesday morning, sunny although a little cool.

As Shaw had anticipated, the moment the convoy left Frederick County, the three powerful sedans had separated to take three different secondary routes. The monitoring network being much more sparse in this more rural area, the Machine had lost the signal of each vehicle one by one. She had carefully verified the network of cameras that were watching traffic from all over the eastern part of the country, connected to the cameras on the police vehicles, and listened in on all the telephone conversations in the vicinity: nothing. They had literally evaporated into the wild. Shaw was right. Her experience as an ISA agent had given her a solid knowledge of the art of blending into the masses and completely disappearing from the radar.

In desperation, the Machine had asked Root to check the computer and the phone that Finch had ostensibly left in the apartment at the time of his departure. The young woman had obeyed without arguing and had plugged the two devices into the AI server at the bottom of the train car, under the inexpressive regard of Shaw, who had decided instead to keep Bear company. After long minutes, during which the supercomputer had scanned the two devices meticulously, the verdict had come: nothing. Yet the genius hadn't even bothered to erase his footsteps. Root had been able to see Harold's browsing history without any problem. She wasn't surprised to find that his most recent research concerned the company Gamesoft and Livia Edwood.

Since then, the Machine no longer gave any signs of life, as if the AI was as lost as its Analog Interface. But that didn't count on Root's tenacity. She hadn't given up when Shaw couldn't be found, so she wasn't going to do it when the life of Finch and thus of the Machine was at stake. Not to mention John... The young woman had absolutely no understanding of his behaviour. Did she have to save him? Was it not too much danger to bring him back here? Setting aside her doubts, she returned to Finch's office and continued the research, alone.

She hadn't worried about the Machine's silence. Since its reboot, the AI had been particularly capricious. So she was accustomed to Her doubts, Her moods, and Her turnarounds. With a flawless determination, the hacker had continued the search with the hope of stumbling upon a detail that might have eluded them.

In the meantime, Shaw had felt a little useless and therefore kept as busy as she could. After playing with the Malinois, she had undertaken to inventory her arsenal in order to be ready in case of a hurried departure. She had used a sports bag to hold all the weapons she had considered indispensable in the event of an offensive against Samaritan. To the assault rifles and handguns she'd added grenades, tear gas bombs, gas masks, night vision goggles, Kevlar vests, and many other things. Then, with a baseball cap on her head, she went up to the surface to pick up two sandwiches in her usual shop located a few steps from the station, in the heart of Chinatown. She liked that little shop. The food wasn't particularly good but she especially liked to harry the boss with her eccentric orders. She considered her day to have started well from the time she received a black look from the fifty-year-old Asian proprietor. Upon her return, she had deposited the snack on the desk next to Root, who, absorbed by her research, hadn't even touched it. The ex-assassin had been a little upset, but most of all she had been worried, even though she hadn't let it show. Without a word, she had returned to sit on her bench and had bitten into her sandwich while watching the images scroll across the screens with a jaded eye.

By this time it had been almost 24 hours since the two women had no news of their friends. Bereft of solutions but most of all, at the end of her strength, Root closed her eyes while massaging her temples. It became more and more difficult for her to concentrate despite the gallons of coffee she had ingested. They only managed to give her a stomach ache. On the verge of exhaustion and nausea, she got up and walked over to the little room that she had furnished, passing by Shaw and Bear without even looking at them. With a heavy step, she dragged herself to the gaudily decorated room and collapsed on the purple blanket of her little bed. She closed her eyes, but despite her ultimate state of fatigue, sleep eluded her. Her nervous tension and anguish prevented her from sleeping. Although her body was relaxed, her thoughts were far from being at rest. The young woman kept looking for answers to her questions. She was so preoccupied that she didn't hear her companion approaching.

It was only by feeling her mattress drooping that she realized that Shaw had come to sit on her bed.

"So?"

"Nothing," Root sighed as she opened her eyes with difficulty to look at her partner.

"You look awful," Shaw retorted with her usual delicacy when she saw Samantha's tired face.

Root smiled. Anyone else would have taken umbrage with that remark but not her. She'd even been waiting for it and was rather flattered because it showed that Shaw was genuinely concerned. Of course the remark was awkward and a little gruff, but the fact that she said it showed that she was really worried about her... and therefore she cared a little about her.

"It's okay, don't worry," replied the hacker as she let her eyelids droop closed. She felt herself gradually slipping into sleep, as if the mere presence of Sameen at her side soothed her.

"Your precious friend hasn't helped you?" continued the ex-assassin with irony as she caressed her friend's forehead in a soothing gesture.

Root reopened her eyes and stared at the ceiling a long time before responding in a sigh:

"No... She hasn't spoken to me since the analysis of Finch's devices."

A long silence accompanied this comment, as if the thoughts of the two women followed the same path to reach the same conclusion. Root rose with a bound, immediately imitated by Shaw. The two women rushed into the train car and seized their friend's computer and phone, which were still connected to the supercomputer. After carefully inspecting the PC again, Root painstakingly searched the phone. Suddenly her research was rewarded and what the hacker suspected was displayed on the screen.

"A hidden file."

"What does it say?" asked Shaw, trying to look over her partner's shoulder.

Root opened the file. It contained a Word document. She clicked on it and text appeared on the screen.

[Don't look for me – Continue the missions – Save the numbers – I'm proud to have created you]

A lead-like silence invaded the car while the two women were trying to understand the scope of these few words. Obviously this message was not meant for them. Besides, it looked suspiciously like a testament. Finch was saying goodbye to the Machine. And suddenly everything became clear! That's why the supercomputer had instantly stopped searching. Like a docile and loving child, the AI had obeyed the last wishes of Her father.

Caught between anger, surprise, and anguish, Root advanced to the desk and addressed the webcam above the monitors. "Do you intend to obey him?"

In response, the screens extinguished themselves, plunging the train car into semi-twilight. After long minutes of deafening silence, as the two young women began to lose hope, three letters were displayed. Three small letters as cold and impersonal as the cables, hard discs, and the servers that had produced them.

[Yes]

Root couldn't believe her eyes. She would never have thought that the Machine could leave one of its agents in the hands of Samaritan, let alone its creator.

"Why?" she asked with a trembling voice, her eyes shining with tears.

The screen turned black again and the subway station was again plunged into darkness.

"I think you upset it," sighed Shaw as the Machine's silence dragged on.

Suddenly, the screens displayed a webcam video dating from September 6th, 2003. They could see a younger Finch speak in a moralistic tone to the camera. "You can't do that again. Your job is to protect everyone, not to protect me. I guess we're going to have to discuss some ground rules."

Then the screen became black again.

"Harold ordered Her not to seek him and to pursue the missions without him," whispered Root, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

"And she intended to obey him," said Shaw skeptically, "but she folded when Reese blackmailed her."

Root suddenly regained hope. "She needs agents to continue the missions..." she murmured, thinking out loud. Then she stared at the red dot above the central monitor. "But if we decided to refuse to help Her, She wouldn't be able to obey Harold. After all, it wouldn't be surprising coming from a sociopath and a psychopath," she said with a smile in the corner of her mouth.

The screens lit up with a new message from the Machine.

[Could you live without hearing the sound of my voice in your ear?]

Root's smile widened while Shaw raised a perplexed eyebrow. What a strange conversation! Shaw knew that a very strong relationship had developed between the AI and its Analog Interface, but their conversations were usually private: the Machine spoke directly through the young woman's cochlear implant. Although she had already tasted her friend's peculiar humour and sharp wit, the ex-assassin discovered with amazement that the supercomputer was also capable of mind games. Very surprisingly, Shaw suffered from this exchange from which she felt excluded and, despite her sociopathy, she was almost jealous of the invisible bond that united Root and the Machine.

It was then that she did something that surprised even herself. She approached the hacker and glared at the webcam before whispering in a sensual voice, "It doesn't matter, I'm the one who murmurs soft words into her ear." But to her great despair, Root didn't seem to notice her flirting, her attention being focused on the Machine's answer.

Seeing that the AI remained silent, the hacker blurted, "If Samaritan manages to exploit Finch's skills, you won't be able to save anyone because you'll die!" Despite that the young woman had directly addressed the red dot with her large, brown, begging eyes, the screen remained hopelessly black.

"What is it? Is she sulking?" asked Shaw, narrowing her eyes, incredulous at the astonishing human-like behaviour of the Machine.

"No, she's thinking."

"She's taking her time for a supercomputer. I don't think what we're asking for is complicated. She can very well handle the Numbers while searching for Finch," sighed Shaw as she went back to sitting on the metal bench of the train car, which seemed to have become, over time, her observation post.

"What's difficult for Her is that she's being asked to disobey a formal command from her administrator."

"And so? It's just a Machine."

"A Machine that thinks and reflects with values and a moral code. A Machine that has memories, who suffers, who regrets, who jokes, and who can even go so far as to sacrifice itself to save the ones She loves."

"All right, all right, I understood," the ex-assassin sighed, a bit annoyed by this deluge of compliments.

"At this moment, it must weigh the pros and cons and calculate the billions of possibilities induced by our little blackmail."

"You think this is going to work?"

"I'm sure."

The AI reacted to Root's assured remark.

[You are very presumptuous]

Root smiled.

[But you're right]

She'd won! But Root didn't have time to savour her victory. The team now had to work to find their partners.

"Find Harold," asked the young woman in a pleading voice.

"And Reese," added Shaw as she threw a venomous look at her companion.

The screen became completely black, and after a few seconds of searching, several windows appeared. On the different screens, they could see different maps of the eastern United States showing real-time energy consumption, the flow of information, telecommunications...

"What's she doing?" Shaw asked, launching a questioning glance at Root who was watching the screens with a kind of devout fascination.

"She's looking for anomalies. Livia said they needed Harold. If they want him to work for them, it involves installations, servers, telecommunication nodes, antennas... If he's being held in this remote corner of the country, the Machine will easily detect an over-consumption of electricity."

And indeed, the AI indicated a place on the map with a red circle. The tiny village had fewer than 1000 inhabitants but its energy consumption was comparable to that of a metropolis.

"Sugar Grove, West Virginia," the hacker read.

"Are they here?" Shaw left her vantage point for a closer look at the map.

[Probability: 62%]

"Why did the Samaritan agents bury themselves in this town more than six hours away from New York?" questioned the ex-assassin, still dubious despite the AI response.

"Because they have all the necessary equipment to make changes to Samaritan safely," replied Root by indicating the satellite image of the site sent by the Machine.

"How's that?"

"Sugar Grove is one of the two sites in the country belonging to the ECHELON surveillance network operated by the NSA. It intercepts all the public or private communications such as e-mails, SMS, fax, and telephone calls," explained the hacker as she eyed the immense white domes that hid the parabolic antennas.

Indeed, the complex was gigantic. They could see a dozen antennas of very different diameters, and dark buildings all guarded by security agents. In comparison, the village, which comprised only about a few dozen houses, was almost invisible.

"I thought ECHELON had become obsolete after Northern Lights."

"It is of course, when compared to the power of the AI, but a large part of the data processed by Samaritan and by the Machine is captured by the big ears of the ECHELON network sites, which still work perfectly and which are distributed to the four corners of the planet."

"What are we waiting for, then?" asked Shaw as she turned on her heel to fetch the weapons-filled bag that had been waiting on a table since the day before.

* * *

Standing in front of a hospital bed, Greer watched the technicians and doctors working around Reese. The latter, lying on the covers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, appeared to be sleeping. A monitor measured his heart rate, a wrist strap measured his blood pressure, and electrodes were positioned on the left side of his head where the team of neurologists had implanted an electronic chip. Men armed with digital tablets sent a battery of information directly into the agent's cerebral cortex.

As well as these engineers, doctors were watching the patient's vital signs. But there was no need to be a doctor to see the concerning indications in the man. His perspiring body was shaken with tremors. His eyes were making lateral movements under his eyelids. The monitors' beeps were irregular and alarms issued shrill noises when his heart raced or when his blood pressure peaked.

With an anxious expression, a doctor approached Greer. "His physical and mental condition is degraded."

"He's robust," assured the old man, his gaze not leaving the prone younger man.

"Sir..." began the doctor with a hesitant voice, visibly uncomfortable.

"Yes?"

"I fear that a new dose of angel dust will be fatal for him."

Greer kept quiet for a few minutes. He studied the unconscious man at length as if he were gauging the devastating effects of the potent drug on his body and then replied coldly, "Do it."

"No."

The implacable order uttered by a small thin voice echoed through a medical chamber that had suddenly become silent. More and more nervous, the doctor's gaze passed from Greer to the young boy with the cold stare that had just uttered this word. He didn't know the child but he had already met him in the hallways while he was chatting with the Brit. He had been taken aback by the icy aura that emerged from him despite his young age. He had also noticed that the old man seemed to listen to him with the utmost attention, which was, by far, the most troubling thing. Anxiously contemplating the two speakers, the doctor didn't know who he was to obey.

Indifferent to the doctor's dilemma, Greer turned to Gabriel Hayward. If the ex-MI6 agent had been very surprised by Samaritan's choice of avatar, he finally found it was wise to choose a 10-year-old as an Analog Interface. First of all, this child was not just anyone. He was a genius who had not only learned to code by himself, but who had also managed to hack DARPA and the defence networks. But also, no one could suspect that this fragile and innocent mouth spoke in the name of an incredible and powerful Artificial Intelligence. It was so much more infuriating that the last judgment would be announced by a child with an angelic face. Only his cold, hard, and relentless gaze showed that he wasn't a boy like any other.

"Are you sure?" asked Greer as he returned his attention to the prone man who still seemed to be increasingly ill.

The child came forward slowly to stand right next to the bed. He raised his arm and slipped his fingers into the soaked salt-and-pepper hair of his new agent. "We still need him," he whispered, contemplating him with an astonishing mixture of coldness and tenderness.

Greer stiffened up. "It's dangerous."

Gabriel turned to the administrator and pointed his keen gaze at him. His blue eyes examined him as if to assess his loyalty. "Without him, we have no means of pressure on Finch. As long as Reese is alive, he'll do whatever we ask."

"Yes, but the longer they are together, the more dangerous they are," the Brit reminded him as he recalled the last percentage displayed on his cellphone.

"That's true," conceded Gabriel as he contemplated Reese, his fingers slipping delicately from his forehead to his temples and then to his cheeks.

Although Greer had full confidence in Samaritan, he was still worried. It was true that the little torture session had made Finch bend. But he had also spotted that Reese was showing signs of resistance to the angel dust and the orders from the chip, as if Harold's mere presence near him was enough to make him regain his wits. On several occasions he had surprised him with gestures and puzzling glances, as if John was trying to speak with his partner. He was stunned by the powerful bond between the two men.

In just a few minutes, Finch had managed to break the chemical and technological barriers to penetrate Reese's subconscious. The latter had furtively taken over and had tried to communicate with his partner. The old man feared that a new confrontation between the two men would allow Finch to ruin their plan and free the agent from his chains.

The child seemed to understand Greer's doubts. He left the bedside of his new agent to come and plant himself in front of his administrator. Displaying a little sardonic smile, Gabriel affirmed, "To vanquish without peril, is to triumph without glory."

Greer paused for a moment to acknowledge this proverb from Pierre Corneille's _Le Cid_. It was true that winning without encountering great difficulties wasn't very glorious. But the man couldn't help but think of the fate of the tragic character that had uttered those words. Indeed, the Count, who had held his words very harshly to Rodrigue who had come to provoke him, believing that he wasn't worthy to measure himself to him, had finally been defeated by the young man.

He wondered to what extent the AI, too certain of its victory, was taking reckless risks?

"Be careful not to be too proud," the old man couldn't help pointing out.

Gabriel said, "Is it pride to want to prove their words?"

"Which?" asked Greer who, for once, didn't see at all where his precious God was coming from.

"That men are naturally tended toward self-destruction."

Greer kept quiet. After all, if Samaritan wanted to make a demonstration to the Machine and its creator, why not?

He hoped, however, that the choice of guinea pig was judicious. It was true that Reese was naturally focused on self-destruction. As his psychologist Iris Campbell had so well written, the man suffered from a hero complex. His life was of little importance compared to his missions. Saving lives, even at the peril of his own, had become a way of life for the former CIA agent. And every setback was invariably viewed as a personal failure, plunging him into an abyss of despair. The loss of Jessica had made him an alcoholic, and without Finch's intervention, the man would probably have committed suicide. Subsequently, Detective Carter's death had led him to track down the one responsible, Alonzo Quinn, the head of HR and the advocate of her murder, throughout New York with a price on his head as he was being hunted down by all the gangs in the city.

The Brit nodded then looked at his watch. Soon it would be 4 PM. In a short time Reese would have to check on Finch's work. Greer hoped the doctors would have enough time to get him back on his feet.

"Has our prisoner gotten to work?" asked the ex-MI6 agent.

"He went to the office and turned on the computer," replied Gabriel simply as he turned on his heel.

"I guess it's a good start," sighed the old man as he followed.

But as the boy was getting ready to leave the room, he turned to his administrator and explained, "He only bought himself some time. A visit from our new agent is necessary."

Greer immediately understood the order and nodded his head. They threw one last glance at the unconscious man lying on the bed. As expected, the doctor had not given him any drugs and the signs of withdrawal were beginning to be felt. The younger man was sweating abundantly and writhing in pain on the bed while his mind was still bombarded with information sent by the microchip.

Finally, Gabriel left the room, immediately followed by Greer. They went back in silence down a long corridor with the appearance of a scientific laboratory. Despite the child's confidence, the Brit distrusted his two prisoners. Finch and Reese were certainly very different, but as complementary as Ying and Yang. Bringing them together again was a great risk. He had to be vigilant.

"What if Finch refuses to cooperate despite the pressures?" Even if he had doubts, he couldn't rule out this possibility. Indeed, he remembered the conflict between the Machine and Samaritan in the Steiner Psychiatric Institute, during which Harold had explained to the Machine that he was replaceable, urging his AI to put her life before his own. Knowing the man and his unwavering faith in mankind, this eventuality was quite conceivable. Finch could quite hold onto his determination until he sacrificed himself for his cause, even if he risked bringing his partner down with him.

"In that case, Reese will kill him and then commit suicide," announced the young boy coolly while continuing to walk.

"What do you mean?" asked Greer as he halted, regarding the child's small silhouette with disbelief.

Gabriel stopped in turn and then turned slowly towards him. An evil smile appeared on his innocent face before answering, "Unlike the CIA agents drugged with LSD during the Cold War who had no memory of their missions when awakened, the angel dust leaves the individuals with all their conscience."

"You mean Reese is aware of what he's doing?"

"Quite. He sees himself torturing Finch in the manner of a spectator. He knows that it is his hands that violate him, that it is his mouth that tells all those horrors, but he cannot control himself."

"So once the effects of the drug dissipate..."

"Reese would feel guilty enough to seek death," concluded the child with a deadly smile before resuming his way to the small observation room next to Finch's cell.

Greer would never have thought that Samaritan could build such a diabolically sadistic plan. He looked at the child with a sort of surprise laced with horror. Then a detail popped into his mind. Even though he suspected that Samaritan already had an answer, he preferred to ask. "But if both Finch and Reese were to disappear, how would you evolve?"

The boy appeared to reflect before answering, "I have a Plan B. Even though Samantha Groves is slightly more... unstable than Finch, she has direct access to the Machine."

"Perfect," replied the man in his distinguished accent, reassured to have a contingency plan, because he was increasingly pessimistic about the fate of his two hostages.

* * *

 _In this chapter I refer to the ECHELON network. It is a surveillance device born during the Cold War which is responsible for capturing all communications through satellites. Listening bases are set up around the world (especially in allied countries such as Canada, the United Kingdom, Australia, or New Zealand, but also in embassies or submarines). A jealously guarded secret, ECHELON was first mentioned by a Scottish journalist in 1988, but no one made a case from his article. It wasn't until the 1990s that the network was openly evoked, causing a scandal. In particular, Americans were accused of using ECHELON as part of industrial espionage to sign commercial contracts to the detriment of its competitors. The base at Sugar Grove is real!_


	9. Loving the hand that kills me

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _A few comments about this chapter that I had a lot of trouble writing. My previous warnings about violence are repeated and even amplified. I remind you that this is a story born of my imagination so please, be lenient. Plunge into the darkness_...

* * *

Sitting in front of the small desk in his cell, with both hands placed on his knees, Finch idly contemplated the computer screen that was now on standby mode. Since he had installed himself at his workstation, the computer scientist had absolutely not moved, having typed no line of code, and contented himself with giving a false impression to all the cameras whose cold eyes he felt dissecting all his movements.

Like many victims traumatized after an accident or an attack, Harold relived the nightmare scene from that morning to infinity. But it was not so much the torture that upset him but the hand that had subjected him to all this abuse. Reese, his partner, his friend, had beaten him, had tortured him to force him to work for Samaritan.

 _It's not true... It's a nightmare, I'm going to wake up_... thought the man incessantly as he stared at the black screen.

Once Reese had left, Finch had to force himself to not curl up in the fetal position on the cell's small bed. He had remained standing for long minutes, planted in the middle of the room, his body stubbornly refusing to obey him. He was shaking. Of course, it was largely tempered by the cold feeling that began to bite him, stiffening his limbs and numbing his mind, but these tremors were mostly nervous. Leaning against the table that had been skillfully arranged to become a fearsome object of torture, he tried to resume normal breathing while still spitting out the excess water he had swallowed. All his muscles were painful, from his neck to his hip, through his heart.

His mind, for its part, was trying to analyze what had happened to him. Surprisingly, even in the most absolute distress the rational side of his personality regained control, as if his brain, in a reflex of self-protection, had the ability to put a barrier between the traumatic event and the beginning of the rest of his life. He had already noticed this at the time of the ferry attack, and then when Root had kidnapped him... Partition things so as to not sink...

Once his breathing was almost normal, apart from a slight rattle every time he inhaled, the man had come out of his torpor. He had limped to the small bathroom and had picked up a new towel to wipe his face and then rub his hair. Having no spares, he had taken off his soaked clothes and got rid of his torn undershirt which he had thrown into a corner. He then dutifully dabbed the towel on his shirt to dry it and then put it back on. He couldn't help but shiver when the still largely wet cloth had grazed his skin. In normal times, he would've been unwilling to wear nothing under his shirt, not to mention, a wet shirt. But what he was experiencing was nothing normal. His rigid and manic side had no reason to be, in view of the circumstances. He was barely able to button the garment, his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

But his gaze was irresistibly attracted by a bright red trace that stained the originally immaculate towel.

Blood.

His blood.

Although he had applied himself not to look at his reflection in the mirror, for fear of what he might discover, the computer scientist had disowned his own rules and looked up with a kind of morbid curiosity. Of course he had a hideous look. His face bore the stigma of the surge of violence he had undergone for two days. With his hesitant fingers, he had cautiously touched the purplish bruises around his neck. The marks of his partner's fingers were apparently tattooed on his epidermis. He then grazed the notch on his lower lip, wiping the drops of blood that still seeped out. Suppressing a chill of disgust, he had closed his eyes to escape this pathetic vision and had laid his hands on the sink to try to put some order into his thoughts. But he had to admit the obvious: he was lost and felt like he was in an impasse.

Finally, after long minutes of reflection during which the man had stared at the dark siphon at the bottom of the basin as if the solution would gush from the depths of the sewers, Finch let out a sigh to crack the soul... For the first time in his life, the genius was faced with an intractable problem. Despite the obvious symptoms of a post-traumatic syndrome - his persistent tremors, his short breath, and the disorderly beating of his heart - he tried to think about the best way to act. But it was a difficult task. Not only must he thwart the Samaritan project, but he also had to try to save their lives.

Yes, _their_ lives.

For despite the torture, the abuse, the angry words his partner had used in their last interview, Finch was determined to save him. He had detected a tiny glimmer of hope hidden in the depths of Reese's azure eyes and had acquired the certainty that the man who was abusing him was not his friend. Under the shell of coldness and hatred, the computer scientist had managed to detect traces of the old John... the real John.

The recluse therefore clung to this tiny hope as a plank of salvation. If the agent kept his promise to come to see him at the end of the day, he would use his last strength to help him regain reality and try to free him from Samaritan's grip. But for that, he was going to have to cause his friend to react: push him to his limits so that he could cross his barriers and touch him in the metaphorical sense of the word. Finch knew that he had to give his all and that he risked his life to provoke him. To stand up to Reese might awaken the monster that Samaritan had made of him. He just hoped he could be close enough to him, physically and mentally, to touch the good man that remained, despite everything. John was there, not too far, hidden and lurking in the shadows, fighting against the mental chains of the AI.

Finch was convinced that John was struggling. He had seen, deep in the blue eyes as sharp as a blade, a spark, as if John were trying to get a message to him. But how was he to interpret some of his words? Some of his gestures? How much truth was there in his caresses full of tenderness, in his sorrow-filled words? Then, after the torture session was over, when the younger man had pressed himself against him, he could have sworn that John was trying to tell him something. He hoped to help the prisoner to free himself from Samaritan's grasp.

 _Yes, I will save him. Leave my life there_.

So he'd straightened up and limped to the desk. He had turned on the laptop that had graciously been made available to him by the AI. His watchful eye had immediately appreciated the quality of the material put at his disposal: the power of the processor, the speed of the RAM, but he had especially noticed the absence of a connection. So Greer hadn't lied to him. His computer wasn't connected. Samaritan doubtlessly feared that in the midst of his programming, the genius would slip in a malware or a virus to infest its source code. Maybe it even feared that he would contact the Machine? Yet it would've been difficult for the computer scientist to hide a suspicious line of code from the AI's inquisitive gaze. In fact, dozens of cameras were pointing at him, scrutinizing the slightest gesture. It was certain that his screen was particularly guarded. So it was impossible for him to infest Samaritan with a virus, and even more so to send a message outside, since the cell was a Faraday cage.

Sitting in front of the computer, Finch reflected. He was aware that he risked death. But after all, had he not voluntarily delivered himself to Samaritan to save the Machine and ensure that she continued the missions? His orders had been clear enough that his creation would obey him this time. But when he had typed his message on his cellphone, he hadn't anticipated that John would also be taken hostage by the AI. His plan was now lapsed. His salvation depended only on two things: his persuasive ability and Reese's willingness to resist Samaritan's brainwashing. It went without saying that their chance of success was very slim.

By dint of turning the problem in every which way, Finch had managed to find a flaw in Samaritan's Machiavellian plan. For its part, the AI had to be in constant contact with Reese to control him. But Greer had told Finch that his cell was a Faraday cage, which meant that Samaritan could no longer communicate with his agent when he was inside. When he thought about it, the recluse had found a multitude of details that pointed in that direction. When Reese had come to see him the first time, the door of his cell had remained open, which explained his abrupt and unexpected departure, as if someone or something had given him the order. But the second time, the two AI operatives who accompanied him had closed the door behind them. The cell had therefore been perfectly airtight. And that was probably why Reese's brutality and violence had progressively dulled, as if John were gradually regaining control over his new boss. Finch's only hope was to lure his partner into his cell once again and to resist as long as possible to try to get him back to his senses.

Therefore Finch was waiting patiently in front of his laptop. Eyes ostensibly riveted on the black screen, with the firm intention to do nothing.

But unlike that morning when Greer had quickly come to see him to make his proposal, the computer scientist had to wait a good while before the door of his cell opened again. Judging by the meal that had been served to him shortly after his torture session, the afternoon certainly had to be well underway, perhaps even the evening already. Finch was unable to tell. The only thing he was certain of was the anguish that cramped his insides, aware that his life and that of his friend depended on what would follow.

And as expected, after interminable hours of waiting, Reese entered his cell. Finch's heart tore in his chest, caught between the love he still felt for him and the fear that he would once again undergo a violent rampage. What a strange feeling to hopelessly love the person who makes one suffer... Harold felt a bit like a hostage suffering from Stockholm syndrome.

Finch held his breath as he watched this man entering his prison, at once so close and so distant, filling the room with his cold and imposing aura. With slow and calculated gestures, the agent closed the door behind him before strolling through the small room. Dwelling on the library books that he brushed with his fingertips, the younger man ostensibly kept silent. The prisoner observed him with a kind of fascination, the feline grace that revolved around him like a predator. But he wasn't fooled by the maneuver. He knew that the agent was trying to raise the pressure, to make him feel uncomfortable and better to disarm him... doubtless the remnants of interrogation techniques learned from the CIA. However, in doing this, Reese did exactly what the recluse expected of him: to prolong their confrontation.

Finally, after long minutes during which the agent appeared to inventory the books aligned on the shelves, almost seeming to have forgotten the purpose of his presence here, he asked in a voice hardly more audible than a murmur, without even taking the trouble to turn around, "So, you don't want to get to work."

Finch didn't answer, waiting for Reese to turn around so he could finally catch his gaze. Undoubtedly astonished by this unusual silence from the man with the rich vocabulary, Reese turned slowly to lean on the shelves before directing his empty gaze at his prisoner. For the first time since he had entered the room, Harold could finally observe his partner and several things became obvious: his features were clenched, his hair moist as if he had coming out of the shower, and his hands clutched on the edge of the shelf seemed to tremble. It was very far from the calm and cold image during their previous confrontations. Finch decided to exploit what seemed to be an advantage. Behaving with an aloofness that he was far from feeling, he replied without leaving his seat, deliberately seeking to provoke him, "That's right."

If Reese was startled by the computer scientist's challenging attitude, he didn't let anything show.

 _The famous poker face_ , thought Finch bitterly. Nor was he surprised to see the younger man use his other main asset: his charm.

"I'm disappointed Finch; you told me once that you would never lie to me," he whispered in his suave voice coupled with a charming smile.

But unlike with the violence, Finch was accustomed to flirting with his agent and didn't allow himself to be affected. "I never lied to you," he replied dryly.

"A lie by omission remains a lie," replied the operative, tit-for-tat, leaning his head to the side as if to evaluate the fighting spirit of his prisoner.

"Admit that the remark is ironic, coming from someone whose job is precisely to lie to get closer to his targets," the recluse coldly retorted by holding the eyes of his partner in a challenging gesture. Finch had the satisfaction of reading the surprise in the blue eyes of his agent, who had apparently not expected such a rebuff from his fragile boss. A smile appeared on his handsome face, softening his features. The recluse could have sworn that the younger man appreciated this verbal joust, much like at the beginning of their collaboration, a blessed period when their little game of cat and mouse flirted blithely with seduction.

"Unlike you, I never promised you anything," explained the agent as he stroked the shelving distractedly.

"That's right, I just thought I was your friend," murmured Finch, his throat clenched with emotion.

"That time is past, Finch," sighed the agent with a mixture of tenderness and hardness.

There was some melancholy in that sigh. Harold felt like he was attending a conversation between freshly divorced spouses who were rehashing their happy marital memories.

Then Reese straightened up and announced coolly, "Samaritan showed me your true face."

"Yes I know. Samaritan opened your eyes," snapped Finch, annoyed by this argument so hammered into his partner's skull that he seemed to have only that in his mouth.

Finch's nervousness seemed to rub off on the other man who once again tried to convince him. "Finally, think, how can you not see that your fight is endless? You're delaying the inevitable! Man is evil by nature. He must be guided by a higher being, otherwise humanity runs towards self-destruction!"

Still sitting in his chair, Harold studied the body language of the other man with interest. He seemed tense, nervous. Little drops of sweat beaded at the base of his hair and temples. His hands, firmly clinging to the shelf behind him, trembled frankly. The genius wouldn't have been able to tell if his agent was struggling to contain his anger or if those signs were the symptom of another pain. However, this last word aroused in him a particular interest. Taking his courage with both hands, he asked in a slightly ironic voice, "You're referring to yourself by saying that?"

Finch had the satisfaction of seeing his arrow reach his target. Reese stiffened immediately and his eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked in a calm voice, the same calm that preceded a violent storm.

In spite of all the warning signs that lit up in his mind, Finch was convinced that he'd found the right argument to get his partner to react. Indeed, it seemed obvious to him now that in order to control Reese, Samaritan had relied on his tormented past, as he himself had done when he'd recruited him as field agent for the missions. The AI must have spotted John's propensity for violence and self-destruction. Violence was quite normal in adolescence, at an age when any boy tests the limits through fights and evenings with too much alcohol. The army had quickly transformed this fiery and savage young man into a good soldier particularly gifted at fighting and in the handling of weapons. The CIA hadn't wasted any time to spot this and make him into a fearsome weapon of war, a formidable killing machine, using his steadfast patriotism to encourage, develop, and nurture his natural violence.

But coupled with this almost innate violence within him, Reese also had an unfortunate tendency to self-destruct. This character trait had undoubtedly not escaped Samaritan, who used the man's guilt to bring him where it wanted. His unbearable pain in thinking about the loss of loved ones, starting with Jessica, had almost led him to suicide. The AI had to play on his desire for absolution and his need for redemption to offer him something that was priceless: oblivion and forgiveness.

So Finch decided to go against the tide of what Samaritan was proposing. He had to blow up the locks, get John unhinged in order to reach him, touch him, and who knows, maybe even hurt him to reach his goal.

Inhaling deeply and hiding his discomfort behind a mask of coldness, Finch asked with a small smile in the corner of his mouth, "Are you a bad man to the point of having to be guided to not sink?"

Reese laughed mirthlessly before answering as if it were obvious, "Of course I'm bad, Finch. Didn't you choose me for this? To do your dirty work?" Still leaning against the library shelves, his long legs carelessly crossed, a smile floating on his lips, the man seemed particularly proud to denigrate himself, to belittle himself, to define himself only in relation to the sins he had committed, voluntarily putting aside all the good deeds he had done.

Finch saw this as the result of Samaritan's brainwashing and decided to figuratively ruffle his feathers to make him react. "That's not true. I chose you precisely because you are a good man, with values and an astonishing righteousness in light of all that you have experienced," he asserted as he directed his gaze into that of the ex-operative.

John's blue eyes flickered for a brief moment before resuming their icy hue. The recluse had knowingly used the present to define him because he was certain that the man that stood before him was only a shadow, a puppet man manipulated by an Artificial Intelligence that was devoid of humanity. He had to convince John that he was not that man; that he was good, that he had selflessly saved innocent people and that people cared about him. The real John was still there, somewhere behind this chemical and electronic fog.

"For a genius, I find that you are very bad at judging human nature," sniffed the younger man with disdain.

Finch smiled frankly as he acknowledged a conversation they had already had over and over again. He couldn't contradict him. "It's true that I'm rather clumsy with others and that I often prefer solitude to human interactions, but I know you, John. Maybe better than you know yourself. You are not responsible for all the misery of the world."

"You don't know me, Finch," Reese pointed out with contempt as he leveled his intense gaze at his prisoner.

"Because Samaritan knows you better?" retorted Finch insolently with a short ironic laugh.

"More in any case than your Machine, that has such an angelic vision of men."

Finch became troubled. Immense pain shook his heart as he witnessed this man who was so good, so honest, and doubtlessly much braver than himself, denigrating all his qualities to keep only the darkest and most unmentionable aspects of his complex personality. "I'm not responsible for the death of Jessica. No more than you," he breathed in a voice hardly stronger than a whisper.

The younger man straightened up immediately. He uncrossed his arms slowly while moving away from the bookshelves. "I forbid you to speak of her," he whispered between his teeth in a mortally calm voice.

But the computer scientist could see the anger darken his eyes. His irises that were normally a limpid azure had assumed the colour of a thunderstorm. The man was beginning to lose his temper. Finch saw the unexpected opportunity to push him to his limits. He was well aware that he was taking a huge risk, but it was the only way to get them out of this wasp nest. He had to shake apart the biased certainties that Samaritan had implanted in John's brain for two days now.

Finch closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, knowing beforehand that what he was about to say would enrage his friend. Of course he didn't believe a traitorous word in what he was about to say. He even hated himself for daring to hold such abject and profoundly unfair statements. He wanted so much to take John in his arms, to comfort him, to relieve him by taking a little of his pain, his guilt and his grief. But he had to put aside his own mood. If his plan were to work as expected, he would have all the time to apologize afterwards. "Let's admit it, Mr. Reese: if you're so angry, it's not because of me but rather because of you," he shot with enough contempt and smugness that would annoy the calmest and most impassable horse guard.

"Shut up," the agent growled as he advanced toward his prisoner, more threatening than ever.

But Finch didn't let himself be impressed because his goal was to provoke Reese, to bring him in. Bearing an unwavering gaze, Finch leaned forward as if to taunt him, and pursued his directed attack, no longer afraid to make blows below the belt. "You think you are responsible for the death of Jessica, and Samaritan has only exploited your weakness. It's so reassuring to pin your mistakes on someone else isn't it?"

These cleverly chosen words, pronounced with darkness and contempt, caused the agent to completely lose control. Like a wolf, his eyes shining with rage, Reese literally leaped onto his prey. Abruptly grabbing Finch's wrist with one hand and his collar on the other, the younger man forced him to rise so brutally that he tore the top of his shirt and popped off the first few buttons. The violence and brutality of his gesture made the chair topple over onto the floor in a metallic din.

Blinded by anger, John violently pushed Finch against the wall of the cell before he clamped his hard body against that of his prisoner. Harold couldn't prevent his cry of surprise in the face of this explosion of fury, but also of pain when his back, already painful from the various abuses suffered, collided against the hard and cold wall. Indifferent, John placed his forearm against the throat of his partner and slowly approached him, drilling his shining gaze of rage into that, frightened, of Finch.

"Shut up," whistled Reese between his teeth as he accentuated the pressure of his arm so that the recluse had trouble breathing. "Work for us, or I will make you eat your words."

"Out... of the... question," gasped the computer scientist while clinging desperately to the arm of his executioner, trying to loosen his vise-grip.

The two men remained this way for long minutes, each defying the other's gaze in a lead-like silence. Finch was inwardly pleased that he succeeded in maintaining the other man's gaze despite the lances of pain through his hip, not accustomed to such treatment.

Clenching his teeth to keep himself from moaning, Finch stared in fright at his friend's face that was so deformed by anger. He sensed from John a brutal and savage force that was totally uncensored, unusual for a man who ordinarily was so controlled. The fury oozed through all the pores of his skin, his dilated pupils were astonishingly brilliant, his mouth pinched in a rictus halfway between a smile and a hard-line grimace, the muscles of his jaw contracted; all signs of the extreme tension that he was struggling to contain.

John once again leaned forward a few centimeters, slipping his knee between the recluse's thighs to better imprison his body.

Finch held his breath. Their faces were so close that he could at leisure observe the different shades of blue that made the younger man's eyes so fascinating. He would've preferred to discover this formidable palette of azure in less dramatic circumstances. With fatalism, the computer scientist comforted himself by thinking that he would at least have the satisfaction of being able to contemplate them before he died.

"In that case, I'd be happy to kill you," whispered Reese as he increased the pressure on Finch's throat.

Harold had more and more trouble breathing. His breath became short and irregular. His hands dropped from Reese's arm to lay flat on his chest, trying to repel him. But his partner was so much stronger than him. Finch couldn't help but see the parallel with their first altercation, when John had thrown him unsparingly against the wall of that anonymous hotel room while he was trying to convince him to work for him. But if the posture was similar, the grip was tougher, more violent, more brutal, as if John couldn't control his strength.

Despite his laborious breathing, the throbbing pain that radiated throughout his leg, and especially the fear that numbed him, Finch replied with an aloofness that surprised even him as he tried to look into Reese's eyes again. "No... You won't do it..."

Reese narrowed his eyes, taken aback by his prisoner's attitude. But he recovered quickly. A dark flash crossed his beautiful blue eyes while a cruel smile appeared on his lips. Finch uttered a discreet sigh when he felt the pressure loosen. But his relief was short-lived. In reality, the younger man didn't intend to release him. Now with one hand against the wall, he shifted slightly to be able to slide the other into the pocket of his trousers. With a tortuous slowness, he pulled out a switchblade knife. The recluse's heart skipped a beat when he heard the disturbing click of the blade coming out of its sheath. The operative's smile widened as he positioned the edge of his weapon under Finch's throat, just below his Adam's apple. "You want to bet?" he whispered with a diabolical grin.

Harold swallowed with difficulty, hoping that the sharp blade, too close to his skin, wouldn't cut him. But it was too late. Too late to be afraid. Too late to go back. Too late to regret. He had to have confidence in his plan, confidence in his partner's ability to resist, and throw his last strength into what was increasingly looking like his ultimate fight. "You're good at this, aren't you? Obeying orders. Do you like it?" he spat with disgust.

John leaned closer, placing his mouth against his ear and whispering in a heavy, hoarse voice that made the recluse shudder in a completely irrational way. "I'm no longer the submissive and obedient John you knew." He pressed lightly on the blade, just enough to show his prisoner how sharp it was. This simple pressure, scarcely perceptible, was enough to cut the skin of the recluse's already scarred neck and a thin trickle of blood began to flow, staining the collar of his shirt.

"For once, John, disobey..."

John remained there a moment, pulling away slightly to better study his friend's face. Eyes in each other's eyes, body against body, the two men observed each other for a long time, as if they were gauging the veracity of their statements and measuring the extent of their convictions.

Stuck between the wall and his former partner, Finch felt John's powerful muscles pressed against him, the muffled heartbeats under his fingers that were still laid on his chest, and his breath on his cheek. He perceived his irregular respiration as well as the tremors that crossed his body. Little drops of sweat beaded on his forehead and his greying temples, as if he were struggling with all his being against too powerful a force. The hand holding the knife trembled slightly while the other one crushed his arm. Finch swallowed with difficulty, furiously conscious of this body welded to his, of the blue eyes that probed him.

That's when Finch decided to give it his all. Slowly, his hands moved up to Reese's shoulders and then his neck. He laced his fingers together at the back of his neck and slowly approached his face to that of his friend, so as to be heard only by him. "John, please, I know it's not you. I know that it's Samaritan who speaks through your mouth."

"Obey, I beg you," whispered the younger man in a suddenly ill-assured tone. The tip of the knife trembled more now. The operative closed his eyes. The sweat dripped from his forehead. His breathing was short and heavy. Then his knife hand descended. Finch could have cried with joy if John's other hand wasn't still crushing his arm.

"John, help me..." begged the recluse.

"Forgive me, Harold," Reese whispered as he reopened his eyes.

And as if in a bad dream, Finch felt the tip of the knife on his belly. He widened his eyes in terror as he crossed Reese's determined but sad gaze. It was as if his partner's body and mind were dissociated. Finch could read horror, distress, and helplessness in the steel eyes that were troubled by tears. But the disloyal hand thrust the blade with a calculated slowness into the recluse's tender flesh, ripping everything in its path.

An intense pain struck Finch and he clung to his tormentor's shoulders so as not to collapse. But the operative held him firmly by the arm and his leg, still positioned between his knees, prevented him from falling. He bit the inside of his mouth in his attempt to not howl, but couldn't prevent a strangled sob as he realized that the man he loved more than anything was killing him. Nausea mounted to his lips. He spat a mixture of bile and blood while Reese continued to push the blade into its new sheath while contemplating it. Finch felt the blood flowing on his belly, staining his shirt with scarlet as well as the agent's trousers. Drops fell to the ground, splashing their shoes.

But despite the unbearable pain that tore his guts and heart, Finch was still determined to not give up. Determined to show himself stronger than the pain and more persuasive than Samaritan, he did not cry out, did not weep. He held the other man's gaze in silence, his face twitching when his torturer twisted the blade in order to provoke, with studied sadism, the most suffering possible.

"Why are you so stubborn? Why don't you yield?" the agent insisted once again, annoyed by his partner's stubborn attitude and horrified by what he was obliged to do.

"I... can't," Finch painfully managed to articulate in a short breath.

Reese closed his eyes again. He leaned over slowly and nestled his face in his victim's neck. His lips brushed his ear before lingering on his neck. Finch could have sworn he was going to give him a kiss.

 _No, it isn't possible. My imagination plays tricks on me. Suffering makes me delirious_ , thought the recluse at the height of confusion.

The agent straightened his head slightly and whispered into Finch's ear in a voice as cold and implacable as his verdict. "Then I'll kill you."

Finch closed his eyes when he heard the sentence. He felt his life slowly escaping him while the blood flowed abundantly from his wound. His face was pale and sweaty. His breath was short and laborious. Reese's arm still held him firmly against the wall to prevent him collapsing as his legs trembled.

 _My plan failed. Maybe I was too presumptuous. I would have at least had the satisfaction of having tried everything_ , thought Finch, at the end of his strength. His field of vision began to shrink, to darken. He was desperately clinging to Reese's wide shoulders, unconsciously seeking his strength and help even though he was his executioner. But before he died, he wanted to tell him one last thing. Try everything... Do not regret anything... With a superhuman effort, Finch embraced the other man. "I forgive you, John... I know... that this isn't you. I love you," he panted with difficulty before placing a sweet and chaste kiss on Reese's lips as a farewell.

Reese said nothing. Did nothing. But Finch was beyond pain now. His heart had died in his chest and his life was slowly slipping away, as was the blood flowing from his wound. He was going to die. The time for regrets was over. So, in a litany, Finch kept repeating the words he had so often kept to himself, for fear of ridicule, for fear of rejection:

"I love you, John... For so long... You are so good... You saved me..."

This time, Reese stiffened before backing up as if to escape this loving embrace, this desperate statement.

"Stop," he whispered hoarsely.

Finch raised tear-fogged eyes, seeking to once again capture his friend's gaze. But John kept his head down, his eyes concealed behind the damp wicks of his hair falling on his forehead. The computer scientist didn't know if the drops he saw sliding slowly down his partner's tanned skin were sweat or tears. Suddenly he began to hope, to believe that the wet furrows that slowly flowed down John's cheeks were proof that his previous words had succeeded in penetrating his mind. "Why? It's the truth. I love everything about you," Finch continued with a trembling voice, allowing himself to admit what he had always forced himself to deny. He glided his fingers through the thick wicks of damp salt and pepper hair, savouring their sweetness.

"Shut up," the younger man begged as he pulled himself back, at the same time yanking the knife from the wound.

The unbearable pain that Finch felt in the abdomen was nothing compared to the warmth of an emerging hope that enveloped his heart. He perceived that the barriers constructed around Reese by Samaritan were beginning to crumble. John's eyes, wet with tears, seemed lost. His breathing had accelerated. His body, however strong and dynamic, trembled violently against his own.

Finch inhaled deeply and decided to expose him further. Placing his hands on the agent's cheeks, he drilled his gaze into the other man's and continued in a hoarse voice, "I know you're a good man. I know that it isn't you who hurt me, and that it isn't you who speaks. I know you're strong, stronger than them." Then he closed his eyes and put his forehead against John's, seeking to transmit his last strength to help John in his inner struggle that was more difficult than his own.

"Ha... Harold?" murmured the agent hesitantly, as if he were coming out of a bad dream.

Finch was startled and pulled away to observe the man in front of him. Reese blinked several times and frowned as if he were analyzing the situation he was in. "Yes, John, it is I!" the computer scientist encouraged, with his eyes full of hope, stroking his friend's cheek with tenderness.

Suddenly the younger man stiffened again. His blue eyes, which had regained their expressiveness, examined Finch's pale, sweaty face. He frowned, his gaze drifting down to his purplish neck and onto the scratch from which a small trickle of blood flowed. He noticed the red spot on the torn collar of his shirt. Continuing its journey, his gaze descended down their two bodies, still pressed against each other, and saw the wound on the recluse's belly. He took a step back and noticed the knife that his blood-smeared hand still held.

"My God... Harold?!" he exclaimed, and he released the weapon which fell to the ground with a dull clatter. His eyes grew in horror while he contemplated his blood-covered hand, and he realized that the culprit was he: he was the offender who had inflicted the injury. The man took several steps backward, as if to put as much distance as possible between himself and his friend.

"John?" called Finch in a worried voice, aware that the younger man was in a delicate phase, a bit like someone waking up from a nightmare and not yet knowing the difference between dream and reality.

Reese's body began to tremble. Large drops of sweat poured into his face and his eyes seemed utterly lost. Disoriented, he kept staring at his hand and then Finch's wound. "Harold... I... I couldn't control myself," he said, retreating further.

"I know, John... I know," reassured Finch as he arduously limped forward. Pressing his hand on his wound in an attempt to make a compression point, Finch stepped hesitantly toward his friend, indifferent to the fact that he was walking through a puddle of his own blood.

"No!" shouted Reese, holding his hands forward to keep Finch from approaching.

Finch stopped in his tracks.

"Don't come any closer!" Reese ordered in a trembling voice, panicked at the thought of injuring his partner again.

* * *

Amid the calm in the small observation room adjoining the cell, Greer and Gabriel gazed in silence at the scene on the other side of the glass. If the child was still unperturbed, he was far from indifferent. He watched with interest the drama which was playing before his eyes, between his captive and his guinea pig.

The ex-MI6 agent, on the other hand, didn't hide his frustration. His hands clenched his cup to the point of whitening his knuckles. It had already been a few minutes since he'd asked Samaritan to intervene. But the Analog Interface had ordered him dryly to wait a little longer, purportedly to once again see for how long the autonomy of his chip would hold. But they had to accept the evidence, that without the angel dust that multiplied the effects of the electronic pulse in his cerebral cortex, Reese was gradually taking control.

Greer took one last glance at his cellphone. 69% was displayed in red on the screen. It was too much for the Brit, who pointed out with a slight hint of irony as he turned to his young companion, "It seems that your plan has failed."

Gabriel deigned to not even look at the old man, nor even answer. He was deep in the contemplation of these two wounded and lost men with a kind of morbid fascination, as if he were observing two species of rare animals that were destined for extinction. After several more minutes, he stated with indifference, "It actually seems that Reese's will is stronger than the orders from the chip."

Greer observed the boy's perfectly unemotional profile. His features were so innocent, his gaze of a blue so limpid that the agent felt a vague feeling of discomfort. Thus Samaritan had sinned by pride: such a human error that it was almost laughable. "The cell is a Faraday cage; your orders haven't reached him since he entered."

Gabriel cracked a smile before turning to his administrator. "It's time to restore the contact, and to end this."

* * *

Reese, despite the extreme confusion that altered his judgement, quickly found his reflexes as a former CIA agent. Still holding Finch at a distance, he swept the cell with his gaze. He made a mental inventory of all the furniture, lingered on the mirrored glass and then on the closed door. But as he was about to say something, his face twitched. As if taken over by a mysterious evil, the younger man closed his eyes and took his head in his hands. His fingers brushed the dressing behind his ear and a flash of pain struck him. He lost his balance and pitched forward, falling heavily onto his knees.

"John!" exclaimed the recluse, rushing to his friend who had curled up on himself, shaken by spasms. At this moment, Finch was more worried about his companion than he was for his own wound that was still bleeding abundantly.

But John didn't seem to hear him any more. Head between his hands, his eyes closed, the man was biting his lip in an effort to not cry out. An intense and quite unusual pain exploded in his head. Behind his closed eyelids images of weapons, explosions, of Finch, real or imaginary torture scenes, blood, injured children, war, were all unfolding like lightning flashes in his mind. To this hypnotic kaleidoscope sent by the microchip in his cerebral cortex was added a series of electric shocks that started from his head to radiate through his whole body. The agent was sweating abundantly. His whole body was shaken with tremors. At the end of his strength, the man ended up groaning and eventually screaming.

Seeing his friend in pain, Finch didn't hesitate for a second and approached cautiously. He knelt beside him and laid a trembling hand on his shoulder. This touch, however light, violently startled Reese, who jerked himself backward.

"Finch... Don't come any closer. I..." the operative panted, stopping in the middle of his sentence, struck down by a new painful spasm.

But Finch didn't listen to him. He crawled back to Reese again and took him in his arms. He nested his friend's head in the hollow of his shoulder, as if comforting a child. "John, let me help you."

Reese clung to his friend with the energy of despair. His face buried in Finch's protective and warm embrace, the man whispered in a broken voice, "I can't, Harold. It's too hard."

"I know it's hard, but I know you're strong. With the two of us, we're stronger than them," Finch assured him confidently, stroking John's sweat-soaked hair.

How long did they stay so entwined? A very short time, probably. Finch's hand left Reese's hair to caress his cheek, leaving a long trail of blood on his skin. The operative started. It wasn't so much this intimate touch that troubled him as the sensation and smell of Harold's blood on his skin.

"Don't touch me!" he growled, his eyes wet with tears but also brilliant with anger. Instinctively, John brutally seized Finch's wrist to remove his hand from his face without a thought. Finch couldn't hold back a moan of pain. Realizing that he was once again hurting his partner, John dropped his wrist as if he had just been burned. "What have I done?" murmured the younger man fearfully, shutting his eyes so he would no longer see the wounds he had inflicted upon his companion.

"John, these wounds aren't that serious. This room is a Faraday cage. Samaritan can't reach you. We have to take advantage of it..."

"It's too late, Finch," Reese interrupted. "They'll come and get me. They'll restore the link," he said in a flat voice, his eyes still closed. He was close to giving up. Not only was he tired of fighting but completely disgusted by what he had done. Those wounds on Finch's fragile body mirrored his cruelty, his monstrosity. Behind the hypnotic images that were still marching through his brain, two sentences were looping:

 _I'm a monster_.

 _I'm the darkness_.

Oblivious to his friend's inner struggle, Finch returned to the offensive. "No! No! With the both of us, I'm sure we can..."

"Stop!" Reese brutally cut him off and reopened his eyes. "It's over! I can't help you anymore! I'm dangerous!" He took his friend's face in his hands, leaving streaks of blood on his cheeks before plunging his despairing gaze into Finch's. "Harold, whatever happens, promise me you'll defend yourself!"

The computer expert frowned, not understanding the meaning of these words. Then he felt John's arms close around him in a last hug. Reese rested his face in his partner's hair then whispered into his ear, "Swear to me to protect your own life, whatever happens."

"John... I can't let you..."

John held his dear friend at arm's length to stare at him in all seriousness and fright. "You don't understand, they're going to force me to kill you!"

"No! You're stronger than them!"

Suddenly a noise behind them startled them, adding urgency to the despair of the situation. Harold stiffened when he spotted Greer, framed by two Samaritan agents, entering his cell. John, meanwhile, didn't even check the identities of the newcomers, as he was totally focused on his ultimate mission.

"Separate them," Greer ordered coldly, ignoring the drama which was playing before his eyes.

Still clinging to Finch as if his life depended on it, Reese once again sought to convince his partner. "Harold, if you love me, swear it! Promise me you'll defend yourself! Your life is more precious than mine."

"I can't..."

But John's lips suddenly crushed Finch's, stifling his attempts to protest. The agent's mouth was not tender. On the contrary. He was feverish, eager, urgent, exploring his mouth without a care. The recluse moaned under the assault, having the certainty that this was a farewell kiss.

But as John's mouth explored his in despair, Harold felt his strong hands straying under his shirt. He felt them slipping a metal object between the belt of his trousers and his jacket. Despite his inexperience, the computer scientist recognized the contours of a weapon. Taking advantage of the confusion, John had given him, in secret, his spare pistol.

After wonderful seconds of such a passionate kiss, they parted, breathless. John then gave him one last glance, begging and laden with unspoken words. Finch then decided to give in to his injunctions and replied in a whisper, "I promise."

An immense relief softened Reese's features. He gave Finch a thin smile and just had time to whisper into his ear before being carried away by the two Samaritan agents, "Save your life, Harold. Please forgive me. I love you."

Reese was hauled to Greer without mercy. The older man seemed tense and angry when he spoke. "You were extremely disappointing to us. I thought you were a good soldier."

Reese smiled at this statement, which he took rather as a compliment. "A good soldier must know when to disobey orders," he replied with his usual insolence.

"You've left us no choice," declared the old man as he made a sign to the doctor who was waiting in the hallway just behind him.

John tried to extricate himself but the agents held him firmly, and the pain still present in his head made him too weak to fight. Helpless, he watched the medical practitioner approach him with a syringe in his hand. When the man in white stood in front of him, John could read pity in his face. "I'm really sorry," the doctor murmured before making a sign to the two guards. An AI agent then dropped his arm and forced his head unsparingly to the side, exposing his neck. Reese posed a purely symbolic resistance, but he knew, deep down, that it was already too late. The only thing he hoped for was for Finch to keep his promise and save his own life.

For him, there was already nothing to save.

The doctor thrust the needle into his neck slowly and methodically, injecting him with a final dose of angel dust. Instantly, Reese felt himself sinking into a black and endless chasm. He didn't feel anything; not nervousness, nor fear, nor remorse, nor suffering... nor love. He straightened himself slowly. By mutual agreement, the two agents freed him. Very stiff, the man stared at Greer with an empty and inexpressive gaze as if he were waiting for an order. But the command did not come from the old man, who kept silent.

A young boy about ten years of age came into the room and approached John.

 _Who is this child?_ wondered Finch, surprisingly lucid in view of the circumstances. The lad turned to him and smiled at him. Finch shivered when he crossed the dehumanized gaze. Then he noticed a very familiar little detail about the child. But the genius didn't have time to reflect further. He didn't know it yet, but the scene he was about to live through was going to be, by far, the worst torture.

The computer scientist watched, stunned, as the child stopped in front of John and directed him with a clear voice, a limpid order.

"Kill him."

The recluse stared in horror as his friend turned and cast a frigid gaze upon him. Slowly he pivoted and stepped forward. Still kneeling in the middle of his cell, Finch watched him as he approached. With an empty gaze, an indecipherable expression, the younger man slipped his left hand inside of his jacket. Once in front of him John stopped and pulled out his weapon, which he pointed at his head, the barrel almost touching Finch's forehead.

Finch was flabbergasted and couldn't say or do anything. His body and mind seemed frozen, paralysed. He closed his eyes, waiting with a pounding heart, for his execution. He heard the sinister rattling of the bullet engaging in the chamber of the semi-automatic pistol, then nothing. Silence. Then suddenly, despite the muffled beating of his heart, Harold heard a barely audible whisper.

"Your promise, Harold."

That voice.

That promise.

Finch reopened his eyes and found John's gaze. That's when he realized.

 _Promise me you'll defend yourself. Save your life_.

The operative silently mouthed two words that the computer scientist immediately understood.

 _Kill me_.

Finch thought he was insane, struck by the atrocity of the supplication. Even in his worst nightmares, he had never considered living such a scene. God knew he had had nightmares... But this one by far exceeded his greatest fears, his deepest horrors. Getting executed by John was one thing! But to kill him! He who loathed guns more than anything! Life wouldn't spare him anything! What a sinister irony!

But the pain and despair he saw in those blue eyes fixed on him succeeded in convincing him. He had told John once that he would never lie to him. This kind of promise was just as meaningful when the events became dramatic. He had to keep his word. For John.

With his back to the wall and death in his soul, he nodded silently.

He slowly slipped his hand into the belt of his trousers and seized his weapon. With his heart drumming frantically in his chest, he loosened the pistol from his garment and aimed it at his partner. He had trouble seeing as his eyesight was blurred by tears. His hand was shaking so much that he wondered if he could in fact pull the trigger... In contrast, Reese's hand was not shaking. The man stood upright, as rigid as a statue, as unemotional as an automaton. But the desperate glow in his tortured eyes cried out his despair, his helplessness, and silently howled to shorten his suffering. Because the drug was stronger than his will, the chip, an implacable despot, kept reminding him of the cruel order: kill him, kill him, kill him...

A deathly silence filled the room. The tension was palpable. Everyone, even Greer, held his breath, waiting for the final outcome of this scene worthy of a tragedy. Only Gabriel didn't seem particularly upset. He contemplated the two men with indifference, his spirit probably already turned to his plan B.

But, taking everyone by surprise, the lights abruptly extinguished, plunging the cell into absolute darkness. It was immediately shattered by the luminous flashes of two shots that tore through it. 


	10. Beware of the sleeping waters

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _I'm sorry to have neglected (but not forgotten) this fic, I wanted to give myself a little break by writing things that were a little lighter. And then, like all of you, this is not a very restful time: work, holidays... But that's it, I got over it. Maybe some will curse me, others will yell, or else will sulk. You see, I await the reactions diligently! (I'm not even afraid). The comments are always welcome and thanks to Isatis for correcting me despite everything!_

 _So for this chapter, the same warnings are necessary of course. I still slipped a few winks ^_ ^.

* * *

"You really should stop fidgeting," said Root in an irritated tone, not taking her eyes off the road as she drove Finch's powerful black Lincoln.

"Sorry, but I'm not used to sitting still for four hours while en route to a destination that we're not even sure is the right one," Shaw retorted between her teeth, squirming again on her seat to relieve her stiff muscles.

"It is the right one," replied the hacker with poise, whose continuous connection with the Machine gave her all the assurance in the world.

Since the Machine had given them the name of Sugar Grove, Root had blindly followed this trail, recruiting into this mad race a much more skeptical Shaw, who in her deepest heart still wanted to believe. They had taken the Lincoln that Finch kept reserved for the missions and had left the city in record time. Discreet but powerful, the car had plates in the name of a couple of good citizens who were beyond reproach, and thus escaped the Samaritan radar. With an AI as a luxury GPS, the two women had avoided the traffic jams and took the least travelled route while still being the fastest to leave New York City.

The state-of-the-art skyscrapers rapidly were replaced by modest suburban houses, and then the New Jersey countryside. The landscape had become more rustic and monotonous. The seemingly endless straight were followed by small towns with effectively identical layouts. Invariably, the Lincoln found itself on a main avenue where storefronts highlighted the current promotions. The town hall and the high school were the two largest and tallest buildings in these medium-sized agglomerations. Once the city centre was left behind, the small middle-class houses spread over a few kilometers before fading into the countryside again. But the two women hadn't marveled at the landscape, however bucolic and beautiful.

Root had only one goal in mind: rescue Finch. But despite all her efforts, the young woman couldn't help but think of Reese. The Machine's silence as to his fate disturbed her, and she dared not talk to Shaw about it lest the latter ignite and become uncontrollable, at the risk of damaging the AI's plans. So she decided not to think too much while trying to convince herself that the Machine had foreseen everything.

Shaw, for her part, had spent much of the journey rehashing the events of the previous day and mentally building plans to liberate their friends. She had promised herself that all those who had taken her friends would be made to pay dearly. And as a relaxation technique, she had imagined everything she could do to the Samaritan agents, Greer above all, once they were in her hands... But still, the time seemed desperately long. She couldn't stand inactivity, especially when it was forced. For a bundle of nerves like her, to stay still in a car, without having a precise plan, was a real torture. She dreamed of being able to free her rage, her violence, her vengeance...

They had been heading west for almost four hours now. After briskly crossing no fewer than three states: Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia, they finally reached the town of Winchester. This was where Finch had been forced to change clothes. Root drove along the main artery and slowed down as they approached the men's clothing store.

"We're stopping to question the manager?" asked Shaw as she stroked the butt of her concealed weapon in her black leather jacket.

"No," replied Root simply, throwing anxious looks all around her.

"Why?!" cried Shaw, who was already overjoyed at the idea of expressing the anger that had plagued her for several days.

"This city is riddled with surveillance cameras. Samaritan will be informed of our presence the minute we speak to him."

Sameen contemplated the profile of her companion for a long moment before settling to the back of her seat, sighing loudly like a sulky teenager. Even if she was dying to beat up someone to get information or just to blow off steam, she knew they had to be cautious. Their enemy was not just a regular Number. It was a formidable Artificial Intelligence with unlimited power and considerable means of action. Moreover, Samaritan was holding their friends. An additional reason, if one were needed, to exercise moderation and patience, which were not Shaw's prime qualities. It was fortunate that Root was there to moderate her ardour and balance her character. They really made a perfectly complementary duo, thought Shaw with half a smile.

They traversed Winchester without stopping and continued on their way, plunging a little further into the land, deep into America, giving themselves only small breaks to meet purely natural needs.

But when they were only about fifty kilometers away from Sugar Grove, Root stretched out. Clenching her hands on the steering wheel, she threw anxious glances at every intersection or to the roof of each building, including even the most insignificant like a banal farm or silo. Obviously this sudden tension did not escape Shaw, who stiffened.

"What's happened to you?" she asked, trying to see what could attract her friend's attention.

"We've entered the security perimeter of the base; all our actions are now monitored," whispered Root as she carefully observed the façade of a small snack stand on the side of the road.

Shaw followed her gaze and noticed a state-of-the-art surveillance camera on the storefront. This installation seemed to be brand new and wasn't likely to be used to monitor customers, as the lens was oriented toward the road. Each car that passed through this zone of a hundred kilometers' diameter was monitored and the identities of driver and passengers were analyzed. It was lucky that they'd picked this unmarked car. In the eyes of Samaritan, they currently were Patricia Eckert and Joan Mauchly, friends who were travelling to Asheville for the burial of an acquaintance.

"We're more than fifty kilometers from the base; this surveillance perimeter is darned large," whispered Shaw as she thought out loud.

"Quite..."

Knowing that they were being watched, the two women redoubled their vigilance in order not to attract attention. They passed at a most reasonable speed through small towns that were disproportionately equipped with surveillance cameras. There was no question of exceeding speed limits, at the risk of being spotted by police officers who crisscrossed the area, either by car or by motorcycle. Root had now adopted exemplary conduct and the Lincoln was a model of road safety.

Soon the scenery changed. The fields gave way to the hillier and wooded regions of the Appalachians. The Lincoln climbed a narrow road that followed a small valley dug by the South Fork South Branch of the Potomac River.

"We're almost there," warned Root as she turned the vehicle onto the Sugar Grove Road, a sinuous yet narrower country road.

The Appalachians projected their disturbing shadows on the tortuous road, like a permanent threat hovering over their heads. Shaw straightened up in her seat, attentive and on the lookout for any suspicious details. "What is this place?" she whispered while observing the farms and silos nestled in the middle of the fields.

"There's nothing like a lost place to be forgotten. Remember where Samaritan had sent you to be reprogrammed," replied Root, throwing anxious glances to the right and left.

"It's not wrong," Shaw admitted in a dry tone, thinking of her small medical cell that was hidden in a complex located in the bowels of an obscure prison in South Africa.

The rest of the journey took place in a concentrated silence, the two women watching the surroundings carefully in search of the famous base belonging to the ECHELON network. But nothing jumped out at them except the profound rurality of the place. It couldn't be more cliché: fields, farms with wooden facades painted in red, sheds, cattle that grazed quietly and observed with an absent gaze the few cars that ventured into this remote area, and finally, few humans except the citizens who went about their occupations.

Suddenly, in the midst of this tableau that was worthy of a Julien Dupré painting, an unusual detail attracted Shaw's attention. When they approached a small crossroads, the young woman turned her head to the right to observe a path that was lost itself in a forest. The road, too narrow to allow two cars to cross, looked like a private driveway. However, the ex-assassin's gaze was immediately attracted by blocks of concrete that impeded traffic and forced vehicles to slow down to negotiate tight curves. Ten meters further down, Shaw was amazed to see a small cabin that resembled a guard post, with a barrier that blocked access to the road. Inside, she could distinguish three people in dark suits who were watching the traffic. "Is it here?" she asked by sheer habit because she already knew the answer.

"Yes, the base is three kilometers beyond this valley," replied Root without a look for the surveillance post. The hacker drove a few kilometers past it before parking the car in a small secluded parking lot on the edge of the forest. She turned off the engine and then pulled out her cellphone. "This is a dead zone, but we can't hang around. Samaritan will quickly realize that we stopped," announced the young woman as she opened an attached file that the Machine had just sent her.

An image captured from Google Earth appeared on the screen. They could see a dozen or so farms, the small church and the only store that was Sugar Grove. But what immediately attracted the attention of the two women was a clearing, in the middle of the forest, with an almost perfect circular shape. Obviously, this gap was anything but natural. Root zoomed in on the clear space in order to have a better view of the telecommunications complex.

In the centre of the clearing was revealed to be a building with no windows, surrounded by huge parabolic antennas pointing to the sky. The largest was 32 meters in diameter but the majority were only 18 meters. Some were covered with a dome to conceal their orientation and thus didn't show which telecommunication satellite they were fixed upon. Each of the antennas simply hacked all the satellites that passed over them, giving them unlimited access to all communications from all over the eastern United States, the richest and most populous region in the country... a veritable gold mine of information in the open air.

"There's no cover for more than 50 meters around the barracks, so it'll be difficult to reach it without being spotted," whispered Shaw whose natural instinct of an ex-agent of the ISA was resurging.

"Add to that the surveillance cameras and patrol agents. The area is almost impregnable," added Root, presumably using her information from the Machine.

A concentrated silence fell inside the car, as they each looked for a way to access the building without being spotted. But the problem seemed inextricable. Shaw carefully examined the satellite image in minute detail but saw no flaw in the site's security system. Finally, at a loss for a solution, she raised her head to contemplate her neighbour's profile, who was still bent over the screen.

"So? Do you and your girlfriend have a plan?" she asked in a slightly less dry tone than usual. The ex-assassin seemed a little desperate, or even begging. She was putting her fate and the life of her partners in the hands of the Machine on an uncertainty. This was a novelty since Shaw had always, at best obeyed by dragging feet, and at worst, royally ignored any advice.

Root raised her head and a smile illuminated her face, which always was very expressive when it came to the AI. If, at the beginning of their collaboration, Shaw was comparing that smile to the antechamber of madness, she now found it reassuring, because it meant that she had a plan, probably drawn up by the supercomputer.

"Of course," Root announced in an enigmatic tone before her eyes sparkled with malice. "Do you know what the only weak point of an AI is?"

"No," replied Shaw suspiciously.

"They need agents!" the hacker triumphantly announced.

Shaw's face remained impassive as if she were waiting for the rest of the answer. But nothing came. She then frowned, inviting her partner to develop her idea.

"Samaritan needs a small army to protect its site. But men must satisfy natural needs like sleeping, dressing, changing or... eating," explained Root, tapping on the screen that designated a small white rectangle visible on the winding road in the middle of the forest that led to the clearing. "Ah, the magic of Google Earth, that can capture small pieces of the daily lives of the people whose environment it maps." This had earned the American firm a number of lawsuits for invasion of privacy. Google then had to review its copy by blurring the faces of the people it had accidentally photographed. But this policy didn't apply to companies, that were rather delighted with this free publicity.

"A delivery van?" asked Shaw, leaning on the dashboard to better observe the vehicle.

"Exactly; the Machine has even identified the logo visible on the roof of the vehicle. This is a restaurant located in Staunton that delivers meals to the base at 5 PM sharp every day," announced the hacker with spirit.

Reflexively, Shaw looked at her watch: 4:30 PM. She raised her head and smiled in turn. A cold smile, a smile without joy, a smile of an assassin, a smile that meant: _finally!  
_

* * *

Standing in the middle of the road, Root waved her arm towards a white delivery truck that was rolling towards her. Taken aback, the driver slowed down before he stopped beside her. He lowered the window and wiped traces of icing sugar from the back of his hand, likely from one of the doughnuts that were in the now-empty box placed on the dashboard. "Do you have a problem?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, my girlfriend and I wanted to take a little break and enjoy the scenery, but when we wanted to leave, the car refused to start," explained Samantha in a melodramatic tone as she indicated Shaw who was planted next to the Lincoln, its hood open and a thick whitish smoke billowing from it. Shaw gave a small hand wave to the driver, trying to appear affable.

The man looked at the smoking vehicle with disbelief, and then at the two women, before launching a lusty and implication-filled glance at his colleague sitting next to him. The latter understood the message, since his lips stretched into a smile. He maneuvered the van onto the shoulder of the road, just behind the broken-down black sedan, before disembarking. "Let us take a look at it," he said condescendingly, advancing toward what he thought were two damsels in distress.

"Thank you very much," Root murmured, accompanying him to the car.

The driver and his colleague leaned towards the steaming engine in search of the breakdown. Samantha stood next to Shaw and slipped quietly to her ear, "Samaritan is right on one point, men are so predictable. They don't know how to say no to two pretty girls."

"They drive the mechanics as if they were preparing to save the world," replied the ex-assassin between her teeth, trying hard to keep her smile in place.

"If they knew that in reality we are the saviours," murmured Root as she observed their "saviours" poking in the engine while scratching their heads and adjusting their trousers in a very elegant manner.

Stifling a little laugh, Root silently stepped forward to the driver turned into a Sunday mechanic. She pulled a Taser out of her pocket and, in a gesture as quick as it was accurate, placed it on the neck of the man who instantly received a violent electric shock. Stunned, he collapsed under the panicked eyes of his colleague who soon received a pistol whip from Shaw.

"Sorry, for once some men were gallant," declared Root with an embarrassed smile, contemplating the unconscious man's face that was frozen in a rictus of pain.

"I'm not sure they did this out of sheer gallantry," murmured Shaw as she bent over to take her victim's cap that had rolled at her feet. She rubbed it on her thigh before putting it on her head.

"We're losing time," declared the hacker as she took the man by the feet in order to drag him behind a grove of bushes. But the man, with a large body, was difficult to move. "Seriously... instead of eating doughnuts, it would be better to get into sports," she panted wearily, pulling with all her strength to succeed only in moving a few meters.

Shaw, too, had a huge amount of trouble moving her dead weight. Except that, unlike the hacker, she was clenching her teeth and suffering in silence. Once the inanimate bodies of the two men were concealed behind thick bushes, the women removed their jackets that bore the colours of the catering company. They donned them and then returned to the Lincoln. While walking, Shaw contemplated the name badge stapled to the garment and asked ironically, "Do you think I look like a Jordan?"

Root smiled at her and showed hers. "As much as me resembling a Frederic, but we have the luck of taking the identities of people with a mixed name."

"Luck? I don't much believe in luck lately."

"You're right, but I think our good fairy is watching over us. She had to tamper with the schedule of the delivery people so that the company sent persons with neutral names to the site of Sugar Grove." Arriving at the black sedan, Shaw bent over to remove the smoke bomb from the engine before closing the hood. They hoped that the abandoned car wouldn't attract the attention of the few other vehicles circulating on the road.

"I'll take the wheel," announcing the hacker authoritatively, taking the heavy bag of ammunition from the sedan's trunk before swinging it roughly onto the van's passenger seat.

"Hey! A little delicacy, damn it, you want to blow us up?!" exclaimed Sameen, annoyed by the fact that her partner treated her meticulously pampered arsenal so casually.

"Delicacy? I thought you didn't know the meaning of that word? I'll be delighted to experience your delicacy in another place and in other circumstances," whispered Root, a seductive smile floating on her luscious lips. She choked back a little laugh, seeing her partner raise her eyes to the sky, but above all, blush. Under her jaded and indifferent airs, the ex-assassin was sensitive to her flirting.

The two women settled into the van's cabin. After a last glance in the rear-view mirror to check their outfits, Root started the engine. A tense silence invaded the vehicle. No more playing. No more teasing. They were perfectly aware that they were taking a very big risk in this mission, which had, in many respects, all the characteristics of a final fight: to penetrate their adversary's lair that was protected by many highly trained and armed agents, the release of their two friends, and confrontation with the final enemy.

Displaying a relaxed demeanour in spite of the fear that tied their bellies, the two women left the main road to take the famous path they spotted half an hour before. After carefully slaloming between the concrete obstacles, they arrived in front of the security booth where three agents filtered the entrances and exits of the ultra-secure site. Root stopped the van at a small window where a dark-suited man sitting in front of a computer regarded them with suspicion before returning his attention to his screen. Root smiled politely before putting her badge on the scanner.

"Hello," she said to attract the attention of the man.

Surprised, the latter left his screen for a few seconds, which allowed the Machine to modify the photograph in the identification file that was displayed there. In less time than one could say 'phew', the photograph of the true driver was replaced by that of Samantha.

"Hello," he replied dryly before returning his attention to his screen. He took a few minutes to check the information contained on the monitor and then asked Shaw to scan her badge. Because the Machine had already made the changes on the identity file, Root didn't need make another diversion. After studying the second agent's data just as carefully, the man bowed his head in approval. He turned to the two women who did their best to appear detached and announced, "Everything is in order; you can go in."

"Thanks. Good day to you," replied Root politely, excitedly watching the barrier rise with an unbearable slowness.

Once the road was completely cleared, the hacker drove the van along the winding path that sank into the forest. After five minutes, they were led into the famous clearing that they had spotted a little earlier on the plan sent by the Machine.

"It's a real fortress," whispered Shaw, mentally listing all potential threats. If patrols accompanied by dogs were the most obvious dangers, she also spotted surveillance cameras hidden everywhere, on the main building and on the antennae. Added to this, a four meter enclosure wall punctuated with viewpoints positioned at regular intervals, from which two snipers were ready to fire at the slightest suspicious movement, made the site almost impenetrable.

Focused on her driving, Root kept silent, easing the van along the path leading to the main building. Without a window, the only access was a large metal door, wide enough to bring a truck in. As the van neared the building, the door opened as if by magic. An agent carrying an automatic rifle on his shoulder was waiting inside. He beckoned them to enter. Root nodded and advanced cautiously, getting the clear impression of passing the door of the underworld. She cut the engine, took a deep breath in the manner of a theater actor focusing just before the curtain was lifted, and then descended from the vehicle, taking care to take the order form that a manager had to sign.

"You're late," declared a second suited agent without preamble, as he took the paper that the young woman handed him.

"We stopped to help two women whose car broke down on the road not very far from here," explained Root with a smile in the corner of her mouth as she explained this half-truth.

The suited man glanced at her with perplexity before ordering in a dry voice, "Well, we have no time to lose, so give us a hand to get these boxes down." The tone was brittle, the gaze cold, the attitude hostile and contemptuous. Even Shaw, who had descended with her black bag on her shoulder, was uncomfortable. The two women obeyed without arguing, both impressed by the icy atmosphere of the place but also pleasantly surprised to have accessed the premises so easily. They walked to the back of the van and began to deposit the meal cartons on four carts that had been placed at their disposal. The first two carts were taken by two new agents while the other carts were left for the two women.

Closely escorted, they obediently followed their guides through a maze of passages that had the look of a scientific laboratory. At the end of an interminable corridor, they entered a service elevator and descended three floors. The two women suddenly realized that what they had seen on the surface was just the tip of the iceberg. The bulk of the complex was underground, which severely complicated their task.

Shaw was tense. The prospects of getting out of this mousetrap alive were declining as they sank underground. Root was also tense. Her connection with the Machine was less and less reliable. Static saturated the line and the young woman no longer understood what the AI was telling her. Fortunately for them the supercomputer had anticipated this outcome, and her last instructions had been clear.

After long minutes during which the two women felt like they were sinking into a tomb, the group arrived in a large room resembling an industrial kitchen. "Put it there," ordered the man in a more affable tone before turning on his heel.

"Please," whispered the ex-assassin with annoyance as if she was correcting a rude child.

One hand on the door handle, the suited agent suddenly paused, which led to the escalation of the stress level of young women. Root lanced her partner a look that seemed to tell her, _Why did you open your mouth again? This is really not the time to make waves!_

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to the black bag that Shaw had carried with her.

The two women glanced at each other anxiously. Shaw, who had remained silent until then, was the first to react with a keen sense of purpose, a result of her long years as an ISA agent. "These are treats reserved for good customers," she announced with an unusually kind smile.

The man raised a perplexed eyebrow before raising his shoulders as a display of impolite indifference, before continuing, "Okay. Unload the carts; I'll be back with the signed form."

On these words, the man left the room, followed by the other Samaritan agents. The two women looked at each other with disbelief and hope. Even in their wildest dreams, they hadn't hoped to find themselves alone in a room on the site. Aware that this situation was simply unexpected, Root didn't lose a minute. She walked to the door, poked her head outside to check that no one approached and then closed it carefully. She then rushed into a corner of the room, knelt in front of a socket and pulled out a mini-router from her jacket. She plugged it in, and in a moment, the voice of the Machine came back to her with the purity of crystal.

"It's good to hear you," she murmured with relief, under the jealous eyes of Shaw who, visibly taking her cover very seriously, had begun to unload the cartons onto a table.

But Root made no case of her partner's excess of zeal. She was as frozen, listening with almost religious attention to the instructions of her God. For long minutes, a heavy silence invaded the room. Bubbling with impatience and killing time as she could by pursuing her unloading, Shaw was excitedly waiting for the conclusion of this silent confab.

"Understood," whispered Root, to the great relief of Shaw who had been holding her breath.

"So? What's the plan?" asked Shaw, moving forward to her partner.

Without a word for the ex-assassin, Root walked over to the sports bag that had been castually placed in a corner of the room. She opened it with a sudden gesture and pulled out two pistols and two bulletproof vests. She handed one to Shaw, who was simultaneously curious and dumbfounded. "You want a hand to put it on?" asked the hacker in a sensually provocative voice.

Sameen gave her a black look before passing the heavy Kevlar vest over her head and then attaching the two pairs of scratches to the sides. Root imitated her, smiling, and then rummaged in the bag again. She pulled out an M16 automatic rifle as well as ammunition that she handed to her partner. By reflex, Shaw checked the weapon she had so thoroughly cleaned and then slipped the charges into the pockets of her jacket. While she thought herself almost ready, she saw Root delving back into the bag.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, kneeling near her companion.

"Infrared goggles," replied the hacker without lifting her head.

Shaw lifted a perplexed eyebrow before answering, "In the front pocket."

Root opened the front pocket and extracted two pairs of infrared binoculars, usually used by the Army Special Forces. "It's better to be prepared," she declared, sending a complicit wink to her friend as she handed her the object. Now feeling ready, Root straightened up, her two pistols in her fists, and said in a clearly audible voice, "Good, I'm listening to you."

Guided by the instructions of the Machine coming through her cochlear implant, the young woman opened the door cautiously, poked her head out to check that the coast was clear and then darted into what looked like a veritable labyrinth. But fortunately for them, the Machine was like their Ariadne's thread, which they blindly followed.

The router that Root had installed allowed the AI to have access to the entire surveillance camera network of the site. Quickly, the supercomputer had reconstituted the layout of the underground premises, listed the number of agents present at the scene, and spotted Greer and Gabriel, which she had identified respectively as the Administrator and the Samaritan Analog Interface. Unfortunately, the Machine had failed to spot her own administrator, her creator, her father...

On the other hand, in the midst of this maze of rooms and hallways, the AI had noticed an anomaly, a blind spot, a phantom zone. This was doubtlessly a Faraday cage since the Machine had no means of accessing it. Quickly, the Machine evaluated the odds for Finch to be in this mystery room as 99%. But rather than guiding her assets to this hermetically sealed room, she preferred to direct them into a small area next to the phantom room. She had noticed that Greer and Gabriel were there a few moments ago, as if they were observing something. So the field was free for both women.

After long agonizing minutes during which the two women avoided patrols, they reached the small room indicated by the AI. Once the door was carefully closed, they found themselves in a tiny room that was redolent with a strong smell of cigars and coffee. Delicate bellies would probably have been disturbed by this unpleasant, acrid odour that scratched the throat, stung the eyes and turned the stomach.

But the two women had nothing to do with the saturated atmosphere of the room; their attention was consumed by the abject spectacle which was offered to them behind a huge window that took up a whole wall. Like automatons, they approached the glass and discovered a veritable scene of horror: Finch, kneeling and visibly wounded in the abdomen, looked without understanding at John who was standing in front of Greer. At the far end of the room that sported everything of a rather well-appointed cell, stood two suited men, no doubt Samaritan agents, a third man in a white jacket and a young boy of about ten years old that Root identified without a doubt. Their one and only encounter had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth and a feeling of incompleteness. Maybe it was time to correct the situation...

"Who is it?" asked Shaw, indicating the child.

"Gabriel Hayward, the Samaritan Analog Interface," replied Root without taking her eyes off her two partners.

"A kid?" Shaw asked, astonished, believing neither her eyes nor her ears.

"Precisely, a demon with the face of an angel... a genius idea," whispered the hacker who had already gone through this phase of astonishment at the time of their confrontation in a small classroom.

But Shaw wasn't listening. She dissected her ex-partner with the professionalism of the surgeon she had been. She spotted the dressing behind John's ear, his sweaty face, his dilated pupils, his eyes bloodshot and shining with tears, his stiff posture in spite of the tremors that shook his body and his hands covered in blood. But the agent wasn't injured, which meant that this blood wasn't his... but Finch's. He had wounded Finch! The ex-assassin's black eyes were then attracted to the syringe that the doctor still held in his hand.

"He's drugged," she announced in a neutral voice.

"What?"

"They drugged John, that's how they managed to control him, in addition to the chip they put in him."

They were unexpectedly silenced, as Gabriel had just moved forward to Reese. Eying him with coldness and contempt, he ordered in his child's voice to kill Finch.

"This isn't true... He's not going to do it..." whispered Root, unable to initiate the slightest gesture, frozen in front of this horribly fascinating spectacle.

Fortunately for them, Shaw, from her experience, quickly found her wits and reflexes as a field agent. She turned to Root, seized her by the arms and shook her to bring her back to reality. "Of course he will! If your girlfriend has a plan, she has to tell us now, because after it'll be too late!"

Root shook her head and then repeated in a flat voice what the Machine had just whispered into her ear, "Put on your infrared binoculars and wait for the signal."

Shaw lifted an eyebrow but executed the order. She had no choice but to obey without arguing, aware that now their lives depended solely on the AI. Root imitated her and waited, clutching her two pistols in her fists to reassure herself. Shaw armed her M16 and threw one last glance at the window. Her blood froze when she discovered Finch and Reese, face to face, each pointing a gun at each other.

Suddenly the lights went out: the signal.

The ex-assassin leaped up and rushed out of the room, followed by Root. But before they even entered Finch's cell, they heard two gunshots.

 _Shit_ , thought Shaw as she entered the cell. Without a glance for her partners, totally focused on her mission, she fired three shots at the two Samaritan agents without giving them time to draw their weapons, and injuring the leg of the doctor, who collapsed, screaming with pain. Root, who was following right behind, rushed over to Gabriel and tore off his earpiece that allowed him to be directly linked to Samaritan. She threw the fragile device on the ground and crushed it with her heel before knocking the kid out with a quick punch.

The darkness provoked by the Machine had allowed them to take the advantage quite easily. But the lights came back on as brutally as they had been cut off. Samaritan had probably spotted the anomaly and had restored the current. Blinded by the sudden brightness, the two women threw their glasses on the ground and remained disoriented for short but precious seconds. This lapse of time allowed Greer to react and reconnect with his old British intelligence agent reflexes. Kneeling to protect himself from the shots, he pulled a gun out of his jacket and aimed it at the two intruders.

"Wait, but what do we have here, our Plan B which offers itself to us on a silver platter."

Squinting, Root froze when she saw the old man aiming at her. She looked for her companion who was just as disoriented as she was. Then she searched for her two male partners as a last resort and her heart froze in her chest.

Reese was lying on his belly, a pool of blood spreading around him like a scarlet blanket on the raw concrete floor. He seemed to be dead. Right in front of him, Finch still held his smoking gun with a trembling hand, a new wound on the shoulder adding to that on his belly.

Root was petrified by this horrific vision and couldn't think properly despite the Machine's injunctions in her ear. Shaw, meanwhile, regained her sight and her composure. She rubbed her eyes and rose. Leaving her automatic rifle on the ground, unsuitable for this kind of situation, she stepped towards Greer as she released her Beretta Nano from her jacket. Pointing her black gaze into the old man's clear eyes, she aimed her gun at him without trembling. At that precise moment she seemed to feel neither pity nor remorse, just an immense anger, cold, deaf, that threatened to overwhelm her at any time.

"You haven't the impression of being outnumbered?" she asked in a threatening murmur.

Greer smiled before declaring with an aplomb that dripped with insolence, "Kill me and you will not leave here alive."

"Wanna bet?" she asked with a malicious smile, arming her weapon.

A sinister rattle resounded in the room. With their defiant gaze, the two rival agents seemed to feel no fear. The tension was palpable. Everyone was holding their breath as if the mere act of breathing could make the situation turn upside down. It was then that a weak and hoarse voice interrupted this silent duel.

"Miss Shaw... Leave him..."

Surprised, the young woman turned slightly, taking care to keep her gun aimed at the Brit, to observe her boss. She was stupefied to discover Finch standing right next to her. Still holding his weapon with one hand, he seemed to be bearing all the sorrows of the world to remain upright. The man was in bad shape. His body was shaking with uncontrolled tremors. He was sweaty and his breathing was laborious. His torn garments were covered with blood, the stains of which were growing before their eyes. Drops even fell on the ground, leaving dark trails as he walked. Yet the computer scientist did not appear to be suffering. He was beyond the pain. All his attention was focused on Greer on his knees before him.

"You impress me, Harold. I never thought that you would've been capable of killing your very dear John."

Without a word, Finch advanced towards the old man. His eyes were cold and inexpressive. A frosty smile drew on his lips before he declared in a voice as sharp as a razor blade, "I'm going to kill you."

Greer seemed amused with this statement. His blue eyes twinkled with unhealthy joy and a smile in the corner of his mouth seemed to dare him to execute his threat. "You wouldn't dare to shoot an unarmed man," he declared as he laid his weapon on the ground and raised his arms, "it isn't your nature. You are so full of principles, so imbued with all these humanist values that you defend so fiercely."

Finch's smile widened. His face reflected a savage mixture of anger, coldness, and contempt. "Are you sure? After all, I shot John," he said in an almost detached tone.

"You were forced into it."

Finch cocked his head sideways as if he were thinking about Greer's previous words. Then, leaping from one topic to another, he began, "A good friend of mine once said that I was the darkest of us all."

Greer's smug smile began to wither as he read a determination that was close to madness reflected in the computer scientist's now soulless blue eyes. He swallowed painfully as he watched Harold lean over him to ask in a whisper:

"You know what?"

His mouth suddenly too dry to speak, Greer shook his head in a sign of denial.

Finch's smile widened again, as if he reveled in the situation, enjoying the fact that he held in his blood-covered hands the life of the man he hated more than anyone. He straightened up and aimed his gun at the Brit's head.

"He was right," he declared with a loud and clear voice before firing without hesitation, cold-bloodedly shooting a bullet between Greer's two eyes. 


	11. Deo juvante

The Weight of Darkness  
by RocheIle17

 _I apologize for being so late before publishing the continuation of this fic. The holidays were hardly relaxing and I indirectly published by participating in the Christmas challenge ^ ^. But rest assured... or fear it, I have no intention of abandoning it! So here are some answers about the future of our Team Machine. The title is in Latin (because it's classy) and means "With the help of God". Well, it's also the motto of the Principality of Monaco._

 _Thank you to all who take the time to read and post comments, always inspiring and highly appreciated! Thank you to the one who takes the time to correct me!  
_

* * *

The gunshot rang out in the small cell, followed by a deafening silence that was disturbed only by the muffled sound of Greer's body collapsing on the ground. Still holding his smoking pistol at arm's length, Finch remained in the middle of the room for a long time, staring at the other man's inert body that was slowly draining itself of blood. His face was surprisingly unmoved with regard to the appalling act he had just committed. His eyes reflected no pity, no anger, nor relief. In fact no sentiment was visible on his features that were ordinarily so expressive, as if the man were no more than an empty body, devoid of soul.

At his side, Shaw had witnessed the scene as a spectator, unable to say or do anything, having been so stunned by the spectacle that had played out before her eyes. Now she was gazing at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. Which was, upon careful reflection, probably the case. Never would she have thought or imagined that Finch could do such a thing! He had just simply slaughtered an unarmed man, on the ground, begging him for mercy! Even if the man in question was Greer, the ex-assassin was so shocked that she took some time to regain her wits. She turned slowly towards Root which seemed to be in the same state of stupefaction as she was.

Fortunately and unfortunately for them, a deafening alarm sounded all over the base. Although this very unpleasant klaxon enabled the two women to emerge from their torpor, it also indicated that reinforcements were probably hurrying to converge to the cell. They exchanged a horrified glance at the realization that they must escape as quickly as possible.

Shaw turned to her boss who had not moved a muscle.

"Finch, we have to go."

The ex-assassin's voice was calm but pressing. However, she took care to keep a cautious measure of safety so as not to jostle the man who hadn't ceased to watch the lifeless body of Greer lying before him. A small puddle of blood widened slowly but surely to the point of coming to lick his shoes. But despite the young woman's gentle injunction, Finch didn't move. His eyes empty, he stood there, watching the Brit bleed out, as if to make sure he was dead.

"Finch?!" called Shaw a little louder.

But to her great despair, the result was the same. Shaw threw a desperate glance at Root, begging her to help get the recluse to react.

The hacker then cautiously approached her friend and, after a brief hesitation, put her hand shyly on his shoulder. But again, there was no reaction. The young woman sighed before lowering her eyes to the ground. She was beginning to lose hope. Time was against them. If Finch didn't get out of his apathetic state quickly, they would have no choice but to leave without him. "Harold, the Samaritan agents will arrive any moment now, we must go!"

"Leave."

Root looked up and stared at her friend. He had absolutely not moved. His head was still bent over his victim, his shoulders collapsed as if they were carrying all the world's misfortunes, his hand still clenched on his weapon. For a brief moment she would've thought she was dreaming. She turned her head towards Shaw, who confirmed with a nod that the word wasn't the fruit of her imagination. No, she hadn't dreamed. It was indeed the tired, shaky, weak-as-a-whisper voice of Finch urging them to go, to leave him behind.

She tightened her grip on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around to face her. Finch let her do it obediently. Root quivered when she discovered her friend... well, the one who had been her friend. For the man she had before her was no longer the Finch she had come to know and appreciate throughout the years.

The calm gaze of his apathetic attitude clashed with his physical appearance. His clothes were in poor condition, torn at the neck and abdomen, and almost completely stained with blood. His face was covered with a viscous mixture of blood and sweat. But it was above all his expression that disturbed the young woman most. His eyes were cold, dull, and empty, as without soul... Even he was still alive, he was dead inside.

Root shrugged to make him react. She laid a second hand on his other shoulder and shook him gently but firmly. "We're not going to leave you here! You're coming with us!"

Unfortunately, the man before her remained totally indifferent to her pressure. He replied in a voice that was still such a calm that contradicted the urgency of the situation. "No."

This response was enough to infuriate the hacker. "We won't let you die here!" she shouted, taking his face in her hands to plunge her gaze into his, hoping thus to make him aware of the danger. But Finch only looked at her without a word. Root wondered if he understood what was happening. She felt tears coming in her eyes to see her friend in this state.

"You won't succeed, he's in an overwhelmed state linked to the trauma he's just experienced," explained Shaw, whose past as a doctor had enabled her to identify without too much difficulty the first phase of post-traumatic syndrome: cognitive shock, emotional and physical.

The victims, numbed by what they had just lived through, sought refuge in a virtual world and raised psychic barriers to prevent a reality deemed too intolerable to enter. If this situation continued, it would be very difficult to move the recluse from here. But moving on to the next phase, panic, wasn't a better solution since Finch was at risk of being out of control. Shaw was at this point in her reflections when the recluse put the lie to her diagnosis.

Slowly, almost idly, he put his hands on Root's arms and gently, very delicately, emerged from her embrace and stepped back. "You must go. Leave this place and continue the missions," he explained with a stronger voice, as if he had returned to reality.

"Not without you," whispered Root, tears dripping on her cheeks when she read the resignation on her friend's face.

"I'm wounded, I'll slow you down," he pointed out, laying his hand on his deeply notched belly which still bled abundantly.

"No," begged the hacker in a dying voice, aware that time was against them.

Taking them both by surprise, Finch lifted his gun and pointed it at the two women. "Leave," he repeated implacably.

By reflex, Shaw moved between Root and Finch, screening her body in case the man decided to fire. Her military training taught her to take the shots with a vest, which wasn't the case for the hacker. Of course doing so was far from pleasant, but she would survive... Hadn't she already died on many occasions? Unemotional, she challenged him with her gaze, whispering in her suave voice, oddly grave and hoarse for such a small woman, "You will not shoot."

Finch didn't react. His face was as cold as marble. Then a sardonic smile appeared, cold and terrifying. "I've already killed two men."

Shaw looked down at Greer's body, whose blood now formed a veritable pond around him, then turned to observe John's body, which hadn't moved one iota, a puddle of blood staining his left side at shoulder height.

"And if we decided to stay with you?" declared the young woman suddenly as she brought her attention to her boss in order to study his reactions.

For a brief moment, the man appeared startled before he quickly regained his equilibrium. "Would you leave the Machine? Would you abandon the missions?" he asked ironically with an insistent look at Root, to whom he knew the importance of the link with the Machine.

Shaw leaned slightly to block Finch's view before whispering with a ghost of a smile, "Fusco can continue the missions. He knows now."

Finch seemed surprised by this argument, as if this detail had eluded him, as if he hadn't expected this much resistance from the two young women, as if he realized that they were willing to sacrifice themselves to save him. He then decided to be honest, to reveal the real reason for his stubbornness. "I want to stay with him."

The tone had changed. His voice was weaker, trembling, a fragile murmur like a last will.

The two friends exchanged a pointed look with the understanding that it would probably be extremely difficult to separate the two men. John was no more and Harold felt so guilty about his death that he just wanted to stay with him. Die with him. His last action would be a kind of suicide that would allow them to flee.

Suddenly the alarm stopped. A crackling saturated the speakers for a brief moment, causing a deafening feedback in Root's cochlear implant and she collapsed on her knees with a scream. Then a slow, throbbing, quiet beep, although slightly irregular, sounded in the room.

[Beep]

[Beep]

[Beep]

[Beep]

[Beep]

[Beep]

The three friends looked at each other, incredulous, seeking to understand the meaning of this mysterious message.

"It's the Machine," whispered Root, as much for herself as for the others. She understood that the AI had used her implant as a relay to gain access to the cell. The Machine had taken control of the speakers, the cameras, and all the sensors arranged at the four corners of the room. If now the team knew the author of this message, its meaning was no less obscure. What did these sounds correspond to? Was it Morse code? No, the beeps were too chaotic to be that code.

It was Shaw who first realized what these noises were. She could once again thank her medical training. "It's a heart rate," she declared.

Far from enlightening them, this statement confused them a little more. What was the Machine trying to make them understand? They listened attentively to the beating of this unknown heart. It was weak, slow, and irregular.

Finch seemed completely lost. His gaze wandered about the room looking for a clue. It was then that his eyes fell on John's inert body and he realized. He dropped his weapon, which struck the ground with a metallic sound, before he headed towards his partner. Despite his bleeding wounds, his pain that had long since passed the stage of the bearable, the man limped as fast as possible towards the agent. He knelt with difficulty and tried to turn over the agent's body. But his strength left him as surely as his body was bleeding out.

Fortunately for him, Shaw had also understood the Machine's message and helped him to turn Reese onto his back. With professional and precise gestures, she put two fingers on the carotid and waited a few seconds, silent and concentrated. "His pulse is weak but he's alive," she murmured, at last.

Harold raised his uncertain eyes towards her. His gaze had changed. Shaw could read a multitude of emotions, ranging from misunderstanding to hope to fear. John was alive! Finch dared not believe it and yet... This so cherished heart was still beating, his breath so weak but maintained a tenuous connection with life. Tears of joy flowed abundantly over his blood-daubed cheeks as he bent over to contemplate the unconscious man while passing a trembling hand in his sweat-soaked hair. Completely overtaken with happiness, the man had forgotten the trap in which they were.

But the girls were furiously aware of it. While Shaw was ripping John's blood-stained shirt to assess the extent of his injury, Root was thinking about a plan to save them... all four of them. For the Machine, by pointing out to them that John was still alive, had simply ordered them to save him. Or maybe it was the only way Finch would follow them. Still, now they didn't have one but two wounded men to get out. Things were getting complicated. For even if one could still walk the second was unconscious, wounded, and drugged, and no longer in a position to do much. And his dead weight didn't help. How to transport this big fellow of 1m90 and probably on the order of 90 kg?

"He's hit in the shoulder," Shaw announced, rising and heading towards the bathroom in the corner. She returned with the towels that had served, a few hours before, for Finch's refreshment. She pressed as hard as possible on the wound with one of them to form a compression point. After checking that the wound was no longer bleeding much, she tied the second to keep the makeshift dressing in place. "I stopped the bleeding but we'll have to remove the bullet lodged in his shoulder quickly, otherwise he risks sepsis," she explained as she stood up.

"He will recover?" murmured Harold as he continuing to provide comforting gestures of affection, assuring himself that John was alive and well, as well as that for the agent whose peaceful face did not reflect any pain.

"Yes, the bullet didn't touch any organs, so the wound isn't very serious. He'll see other days," replied Shaw, washing her hands in the sink before returning to check Finch. She opened his shirt and inspected his abdominal wound. With her fingertips she gauged the depth of the wound and then turned her head to assess the amount of blood lost. She couldn't disguise a distressed pout. The injury was serious and she feared internal damage. In addition, the computer scientist had lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion as soon as possible. Besides, the ex-assassin wondered, how he could still stand? The adrenaline probably... but that wouldn't last forever. He had to receive care as soon as possible!

She gave Finch a clean towel to press on his belly and then glanced at his shoulder wound. To her vast surprise, Reese, the expert in weapon handling, the exceptional marksman, had completely missed his target and had barely scratched Finch. She sighed with relief before patting the scratch lightly to clean it.

"In that case, why is he unconscious?" asked Finch, still more concerned for the agent than for his own health.

Shaw ceased her care and brought her attention to John. She seized a small flashlight that she had in one of the pockets of her jacket and bent over the unconscious younger man. She lifted his eyelids to check the responsiveness of his pupils. They were wide, disproportionate to the point of eating the blue-grey irises. The young woman passed the light before the unconscious man's eyes several times. No reaction. She pinched her lips but kept quiet. She knew only too well these symptoms and didn't wish to alarm her partners. If they wanted to get out of here, they had to proceed in order, to be methodical. The urgency was to leave this place. She then turned to Finch and announced her verdict with careful words, "He's under the influence of drugs."

Finch contented himself with this explanation and continued to gently caress his partner's head.

But for Shaw, this was far from reassuring, quite the contrary. If Reese was unconscious after a simple gunshot wound to the shoulder, the effects of the drug were more damaging than it seemed. His body, under the influence of this mysterious substance for several days already, was now releasing it. She was worried because knowing her partner's capacity for resistance, the amount injected probably had to flirt with a lethal dose.

Shaw straightened out and advanced to the doctor, who, panicked after Greer's cold execution, had curled up in a corner of the cell holding his injured leg. The man's eyes widened in terror when he saw the little brunette come closer to him and pathetically protected his head in his arms. "Don't... Don't kill me," he stammered, closing his eyes, probably expecting to suffer the same fate as his boss.

Shaw knelt in front of him and handed him a towel. "Here, for your injury."

Surprised by this gesture, the medical practitioner raised his eyes uncertainly towards the young woman and took the towel with a trembling hand. He applied it on his thigh wound and waited for the other shoe to drop, his heart beating wildly.

"What did you inject him with?" asked Shaw in an abrupt tone as she drilled a look into him. She was struggling to contain her anger. How could a doctor who had sworn to care for the population inject this kind of stuff?

"Angel dust," replied the man in a tiny, shameful voice.

Shaw froze. She knew only too much of this drug developed, like so many others, by the CIA. In 1953, when the Cold War was at its height, the agency launched a research program on mental control and reprogramming called _MK-Ultra_. Its goal was to turn agents into veritable killing machines. Because unlike conventional narcotics, whose users often had no memory of the atrocities they had committed while under the influence, the angel dust kept the agents fully aware of their actions. The drugs annihilated only their will, distorted reality, blurred the boundary between reality and hallucination, transforming men into machines that were relentless, docile, and obedient to orders without any state of mind. This drug acted as fast as crack, as potently as cocaine, and as hallucinogenic as LDS, a veritable chemical potpourri.

Although the effects of this substance were not yet well known, Shaw knew that few agents were left unscathed after an injection. She shivered inwardly as she considered how many doses Reese must have received during two days... "Give me the vial," she ordered in a sharp tone, holding out her hand.

The doctor obeyed immediately. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his white blouse and pulled out a small now-empty vial. Shaw seized it before contemplating it in silence. No label of course. But she noticed that there was a little product left in the bottom of the flask. A few millilitres, some tiny droplets, but she hoped that they would be sufficient to find the exact composition of this drug and eventually develop an antidote, or at least a treatment for its side effects. In any way, she had to settle for that. She would do everything she could to save her friend. She slipped the bottle into the pocket of her jacket and returned to Root.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked, advancing to her partner, who had been surprisingly silent for a few minutes.

"Perhaps," replied the hacker with a half-smile.

The siren began to howl again, signaling the repossession of Samaritan's control. The two women had the curious impression that the two AI were battling to take control of the base facilities.

"So? How do we get out of here with a wounded man who can barely walk, and a big unconscious armoire?" asked Shaw, turning to John and Harold who seemed to be making little case of the dire situation they were in.

"In the same way that one brings fifty meal trays inside this same base," replied the hacker in the same humourless tone, with a gleam of malice in her brown eyes.

Shaw immediately understood the plan that had germinated in her partner's head, probably supplied by the Machine. The only problem was that there was no cart in the cell or in the observation room right next to it.

As if Root were reading her thoughts, she said, "The Machine saw carts two rooms from here, to the left after leaving the cell."

Shaw smiled at her. She picked up her weapon, ejected the half empty clip to put in a full one and poked her head around the door of the cell. Against all odds, no Samaritan agents were in sight. This was very unusual in view of the number of precautions taken to secure the site. She slipped quietly into the hallway and rapidly advanced to the door indicated by the Machine via Root. She put her hand on the handle, her heart pounding, praying with all her strength that the door wasn't locked. Luckily, it wasn't locked and led into what seemed to be a small technical chamber. She quickly found an empty cart, seized it, and returned as quickly as possible to the cell.

Root, who was waiting for her, a gun in her fist, closed the door just behind her. Shaw positioned the cart next to Reese to facilitate his transfer and then turned to her partner. "Well, help me move him," she ordered as she leaned over to place her hands under the agent's armpits.

Root stepped forward, slipped her gun into the belt of her trousers, and seized John by the feet.

"On three. One... two... three!"

The two women lifted the unconscious man with a great deal of effort. Bent double and panting under his weight, it felt like they had the world on their shoulders as they shifted the few centimetres that separated them from the cart. With teeth clenched, they laid him on the metal tray with a relative delicacy. John groaned faintly at the shock, the first clear and distinctive sign of life in the younger man.

"Good, and now?" Shaw asked, straightening herself and clutching her thighs with aching hands.

The hacker pinched her lips before answering, slightly uncomfortably, "She's thinking."

"It's taking a long time," the ex-assassin grumbled impatiently, checking the state of their ammunition in order to occupy her hands and mind.

"She won't find anything."

Surprised, the two women whirled and discovered Finch, standing next to them with his hands clenched on his wound. Root lowered her eyes and kept quiet. He was right. All the simulations of confrontation between Samaritan and the Machine had only resulted in failure. Why would this one be different?

"Well, we'll have to get _some_ help from your girlfriend," said Shaw, positioning herself behind the door. She stuck her ear to the wall and detected some agitation on the other side: footsteps, whispers, metallic rattles of pistols and assault rifles that were being armed. "They're coming," she commented, with a glance at her partners to warn them that the final attack would probably be soon.

"Hurry up," begged the hacker, showing obvious signs of impatience tinged with a rush of panic.

"We must help her."

The two women once again stared at Finch with perplexity. Unlike his friends who were struggling to hide their stress, the man displayed a resolved expression, determined and paradoxically very calm despite the urgency and the agitation of the environment.

"You've locked the Machine," Root pointed out in a caustic tone.

"Indeed, but I also know that you gave her the ability to defend herself," stressed the computer scientist as he limped painfully towards the two agents that were lying dead on the floor.

"She told you?" Root asked, caught between incomprehension and the excitement of a new perspective of her very dear friend.

"The Machine has always taken some liberties with its initial prerogatives," said Finch. "Remember Senator McCourt?" Indeed, two years ago, in order to prevent the commissioning of Samaritan whose danger to mankind had been foretold by the AI, she had simply demanded the politician's execution, thus bypassing all her basic rules.

"So you know that you're the only one who can activate this program," the hacker clarified.

"That's right."

They'd already had this conversation multiple times. Their viewpoints had seemed irreconcilable. On one side, Samantha had full confidence in the Machine and wanted to free her completely so that she expressed her full power without hindrance. On the other, Harold didn't want the technology, as perfect and sophisticated as it was, to supplant mankind. As a result, Finch's terse response astonished the young woman. She was sensing that he had something else in mind. She watched him take the earpiece of one of the Samaritan men. Her eyes widened in surprise as she suddenly understood that the man was about to go into God Mode. She hesitated, then: giving the Machine the ability to defend itself didn't mean that it would help them out of here.

"What if the Machine decides not to help us?" she asked in a very small, shameful voice. For the first time since she'd known of the Machine's existence, she was having doubts about the AI.

"It's a risk we must take," he replied in a neutral tone, placing the small device in the hollow of his ear.

Root was appalled. She no longer recognized the cautious and posed man she had known until now. Finch now appeared to be cold, calculating, and not feeling any empathy or kindness towards his fellow men. Only John counted. For him, to save him, he questioned all the principles for which he had fought. To get them out of here, he was placing the fate of mankind in the hands of an AI who was preparing to be, for the first time since birth, truly omniscient and powerful.

"Can you hear me?" he asked while he stared at the red dot of one of the cell's many surveillance cameras.

Root stayed frozen in place. Although she felt excitement at the idea of finally seeing the Machine deploy all of her potential, she was worried about her friend. He seemed to have drawn a line across his deepest convictions. But this was no longer the time for philosophical and metaphysical questions. They had to get out of this damned base.

The mechanical, impersonal, disjointed and dehumanized voice of the AI resounded in the cell.

[Yes.]

Finch smiled. Upon thinking about it, this was the first time that he spoke to her, not as a child, or to a pupil to whom he taught a moral code and values, but to a person, his alter-ego.

"Get us out of here," the computer programmer interrupted before specifying in a clearly audible voice, "by any means."

[Are you sure?]

Harold inhaled deeply before replying, "I release you."

A long silence greeted the order. The team members exchanged incredulous glances, wondering if the Machine had understood the message. Hanging on her answer, Root, Shaw, and Finch waited anxiously for the moment that she finally decided to talk to them.

And finally, after a time that seemed interminable to them but which in reality only lasted a few seconds, new instructions came to the ears of Root and Finch. Finally, God had agreed to help them.

"Okay," replied Root while picking up the infrared goggles that she and Shaw had thrown down during their assault a few minutes earlier. "Here, we'll need it," she explained as she passed a pair to her partner.

For once, Shaw didn't comment and obediently executed the instruction. Judging by her scowl, she seemed quite annoyed to be relegated to the rank of second fiddle, waiting for instructions that the supercomputer deigned to provide her two partners that were in direct relationship with her.

Once equipped, the hacker laid her hand on the door handle. Although she had a blind trust in the Machine, she couldn't help but take a deep breath to give herself courage before opening the door. Especially since the Machine had just explained her plan in only a few words and the young woman knew what to expect. "At the signal, you exit and turn right. You go up the hallway to the service elevator about 50m from here," Root explained mechanically, repeating the message dictated by the Machine.

"And you?" asked Shaw, instinctively stiffening.

"Don't worry, I'll follow you with Harold," reassured Samantha with a slight smile, delighted to detect a hint of anxiety in her companion's somewhat abrupt remark.

Her lips pinched in a stern crease that reflected her anguish, the ex-assassin simply nodded her head. Root then handed her second gun to Finch, who took it without arguing. He armed it under the incredulous gaze of the two women who no longer could be shocked at such bizarreness. After all, Finch had just shot John and shot Greer in cold blood, and they had no doubt that he would not hesitate to use it against the Samaritan agents.

"Good. Let's go," she declared, as much for her friends as for the AI. Immediately, the siren was silenced. The lights were extinguished. The silence was deafening. She turned the handle and opened the door carefully. At the squeaking from the metal door, the Samaritan agents began to blanket fire across their target. Fortunately for Root, the door was armoured and only the ricocheting bullets prevented it from opening properly. Well sheltered behind her makeshift shield, the young woman waited for the next step with anguish.

As expected, an extremely unpleasant acute whistle saturated her implant. Root clenched her teeth under the stroke of intense pain that crossed her brain, and she beckoned Shaw to run.

The ex-assassin pushed the cart with all her strength. She was scared. She clenched her hands on her weapon while trying to run as fast as possible by bending herself to avoid stray bullets. But against all odds, no shot came to disturb hers escape. Through her night vision goggles, she saw the prostrate Samaritan agents, holding their heads in their hands. Evidently the Machine had also saturated their ears with the same acute whistle that had affected Root. Except that her partner was aware and was able to prepare for it, mentally at least, because the pain she felt was very real.

Still on her guard but reassured, Shaw went up the hallway in question and spotted the elevator doors. But the more she advanced, the more her optimism faded. The doors of the elevator car were locked by an electronic box; the little red light that shone was hardly reassuring. But as she slowed down to avoid being plastered against the closed doors of the elevator, the light became green. The car unlocked magically and the doors opened.

The ex-assassin sighed as she heaved the cart into the elevator. Once she was safe, she took off her goggles that had become useless thanks to the cabin lighting, and then glanced at the wounded Reese. Despite the ambient agitation and shaking during their flight, Reese hadn't moved. Only his left arm was now dragging on the ground. His bloodied face was still impassible and the makeshift dressing, still clean, signaled that his wound had not resumed bleeding. That was already one thing...

Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. She turned around, her weapon aimed at the intruders who rushed toward her, and uttered a new sigh of relief by discovering that Finch, aided by Root, was going up the hallway as quickly as possible. Both partners were suffering. Their expressions were crisp. The young woman had a hand on her right ear as if to alleviate the pain while Harold limped agonizingly while holding his abdomen. His arm was clasped around the shoulders of his friend, who had slipped hers around his waist to support him as much as she could.

All of a sudden, footsteps ran toward them and then shots resonated in their direction. Shaw returned fire while taking care not to hurt her friends. But in a place as narrow and confined as this one, it would have been a miracle for no one to be hit. They might've been guided by a God, but the miracle didn't take place. Suddenly, Root collapsed to the ground only a few metres from the elevator, struck by several bullets, and her fall dragged Finch down with her.

Shaw, while continuing to spray bullets around copiously at the Samaritan agents, rushed out of the elevator to drag the computer scientist with all her strength. She had to hurry; for when she sought to return to help her companion, the suited men were already catching up to her and were ready to seize her.

"Shit," swore Shaw between her teeth, torn by a case of conscience that completely exceeded her ken: save Root at the risk of blowing their escape attempt and getting all taken by Samaritan, or abandoning her friend and leaving with Reese and Finch.

Instinctively, she began a step towards Root, as if her body had chosen for her.

[Stop, don't move.]

Shaw stopped immediately. She turned her head and spotted a small surveillance camera nestled in a corner of the elevator car. The ex-assassin remained still. Who was just talking to her? The Machine or Samaritan?

The answer wasn't long in coming. As the agents helped Root get up, sparks burst out of their earpieces, trouser pockets, or jackets, making them let her go. Quickly, the sparks turned into flames. The men hurriedly removed their implants and their smouldering clothing while expressing howls and exclamations of surprise, terror, and pain.

Root took advantage of this salutary diversion to rush to the car, which immediately closed on her.

"Do you know what happened?" asked Shaw as she verified that the bullet-proof vest had played its part well and that no bullet had hurt her companion.

"The Machine... provoked... a short circuit... in their phones," panted the hacker, still in shock from the shots she had taken.

While the elevator ascended, Shaw checked the casualty status. John was stable. Harold was struggling more and more. If his shoulder wound was superficial, his belly wound still bled a lot. He was covered in blood and soaked in sweat. The Slayer suspected a fever.

"What should we do now?" asked Root, staring at the red dot of the car's surveillance camera.

But the mechanical voice that came out of the speakers was blurred, distorted, and therefore piecemeal.

[Pickup... doors...]

Then the communication was interrupted as the elevator stopped so abruptly that everyone wavered.

"What's going on?" asked Shaw, straightening up, seeking an answer in the expression of her companion.

"The connection has been interrupted."

"By whom?"

"Samaritan," whispered Root. The hacker had several explanations in mind. Either her router had been detected and disconnected, or the Machine had once again lost its duel with the rival AI. In any case, they were now alone.

For her part, Shaw wasn't asking questions. She was used to have that kind of situation. She tried to open the sliding doors of the elevator but it was next to impossible. "Crap," she swore before turning around to inspect the cabin in search of an object that could help her.

Once again, in their misfortune, they benefitted from an insolent chance. In this service elevator, a cleaning kit had been carelessly forgotten. The brunette seized a broom whose metal handle could very well act as a lever. She slipped the stick in the gap of the door and put pressure on it with all her strength. The door opened with some precious few centimeters. The young woman dropped the broom and seized one side of the door. Her companion rushed to grasp the other side. Soon the elevator door opened completely, allowing a floor to appear. The cabin had stopped between two floors! Luck could not always be at the rendezvous...

Putting her weight on her forearms, Shaw easily climbed to the ground floor and discovered the garage in which they had parked their delivery van. Blows on the doors showed that they were locked.

"Help me!" called Root while supporting Harold who was struggling to stand up.

The ex-assassin turned and seized the computer scientist under the armpits to help him climb. Then she dragged him next to the van and opened the back doors. "Climb," she ordered the recluse before heading back to the elevator to help Root to transport Reese.

That operation proved to be much more difficult. For two women of their size, lifting an unconscious man of John's stature was extremely complicated. While one pulled him by the arms, the other pushed him on the back. In the end, they painfully hoisted him up and then dragged him to the van. Once the two men were safely in the back of the van, they climbed into the cabin. Shaw moved to the wheel, Root at her side.

The Samaritan agents were always hammering furiously at the gates. Soon, the sounds of fists were replaced by gunshots. They were trying to blow up the locks to get into the garage.

Shaw started the van and grabbed the steering wheel firmly. She inhaled deeply before asking, "Ready?"

"More than ever," replied the hacker by nodding her chin at the two automatic pistols that she had just armed.

"Then let's get out of here."

She pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor, causing the tires to squeal. The van plunged forward in a cloud of smoke and bashed into the door. Surprised, the Samaritan agents threw themselves to the side to avoid being crushed. The vehicle retraced the winding path out of the base under heavy fire from the men stationed on the lookouts.

The windshield quickly flew apart and the impact of bullets ricocheted around the two women, who lowered their heads to protect themselves. Prostrate at the back of the van, Finch held Reese between his arms to cushion the shocks of a too-abrupt drive and to protect him from a stray bullet.

"Do something," he whispered in a barely audible voice, squeezing the agent a little more tightly against him.

The Machine once again acceded to her father's plea by causing an electrical overload throughout the base. All electrical panels and electricity-powered devices like computers failed at the same time, making the Samaritan agents partially deaf and blind.

The van left the clearing and sank into the forest. Arriving at the control booth, Shaw didn't slow down and barrelled through the security gates while under fire from the post's officers. She brutally turned onto the small provincial road and sped eastward towards New York. But another problem was bothering her. "They'll follow us," affirmed the brunette, driving far beyond the speed limit to put the most distance between them and potential pursuers.

"That's certain," declared Root, throwing anxious glances in the rear-view mirrors.

"We must remove the chip from Reese."

"No."

The two women launched a frightened look at Finch who had just intruded into their conversation.

"Samaritan will use it to spot us!" Shaw exclaimed, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. This situation reminded her of several weeks ago, when she had escaped from Samaritan's clutches and had sought to escape its agents.

More calmly, Root turned to her friend and asked, "Why should he keep it?"

With Reese's head laid on his knees, Finch continued to gently caress the man's hair, his fingers slipping through the salt-and-pepper wicks, but carefully avoiding the dressing behind his ear. His eyes lowered, he contemplated the other man with love and sadness before whispering, " _She_ will need it." 


	12. The other side

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _I've managed to follow a rhythm of publication. We are approaching the end. The title of this chapter is a reference to the song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Otherside", which obviously refers to the world after death, but which can also be understood as life after the drugs. Indeed, the expression "Otherside" is often used by former drug addicts to evoke their new life after a detox._

 _Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and post comments; always very inspiring_.

* * *

 _Where am I?_

 _Why can't I move?_

 _I'm cold._

 _Am I dead?_

The man tried to open his eyes but his eyelids felt like they were sealed. He tried to move, but his body, as if paralyzed, refused to obey him. Only his brain seemed to function normally, and he was running at full throttle, analyzing the sounds, the movements, the odours, the sensations around him.

 _I have pain_.

 _No, I'm not dead_...

He was in the hospital. He was sure of it. Everything evoked to him the hospital environment: the peculiar smell, mixture of ether, detergent, and medicines; sounds, like the regular and haunting sound of a monitor, the distant conversations, and the sound of a push-cart. The fine material of his nightgown that didn't protect him from the cold and the roughness of the coarse cotton sheets against his skin.

Whose was that heart that he heard beating? Was it his? Was he hurt?

Yes, he was hurting. An intense pain twisted his temples to the point that he had the impression that his head was stuck in a vise that a malignant gremlin was tightening conscientiously. He also suffered from pain in the shoulder, but much less.

He was thirsty. His mouth was so dry that he couldn't swallow. His throat was irritated as if he had had something shoved into his trachea.

 _I've been operated upon_...

A little reassured after finding his bearings, the man made a new attempt to open his eyes. With a superhuman effort, he lifted his eyelids laboriously before closing almost immediately, assaulted by the brightness of the room.

Now he was certain he was in the hospital. He had had time to see the decorations characteristic of this kind of place: the pale blue colour of the walls, the television suspended on the wall, the rolling table for meals, and the window with open curtains which allowed him to glimpse the buildings of the city.

 _New York._

 _I'm in New York_...

He gently raised his hand to lay it on the location on his body which made him suffer most, namely, his abdomen. This tiny movement was as exhausting as it was painful. His arm was heavy as lead and the simple feat of lifting it provoked a very unpleasant tightness in his belly. But when his fingers brushed the bandage that was firmly wrapped around his waist, just below the navel, the pain struck him to the point of causing him to let loose a faint groan.

Suddenly his hand was caught with gentleness but firmness. He felt a benevolent presence leaning over him and whispering to him softly, "Mr. Wren, do you hear me? Squeeze my hand if that's the case."

Harold gathered all his strength to for this little gesture that a two-year-old child could do with ease, but that, for him, demanded absolute concentration and superhuman strength.

"Very good, I'll tell the doctor you're awake. He's coming to talk to you. Your friend will then be able to come to see you," declared the gentle but unknown female voice, as she quietly placed his hand by his side, deliberately away from his wound.

The recluse let himself remain silent. He felt exhausted, confused, very weak, and without knowing why, depressed... His mind was troubled, but although he'd searched the corners of his memory, he had no memory of what had brought him here. Everything was black and empty. Darkness and nothingness.

 _Why am I in the hospital?_

 _What has happened?_

He inhaled deeply to try to calm an uncontrollable burst of panic that threatened to engulf him whole, and reopened eyes cautiously. He was relieved to find that the light seemed less aggressive than it had been in his first attempt. Maybe the nurse had closed the curtains.

He swept his room with his gaze. He didn't have his glasses and his vision was blurry, but still, he guessed that on his right were a bedside meal table and a wide window with the blinds down. On his left, the open doors of a small cupboard allowed glimpses of some personal effects: a coat, a suit, a shirt, and shoes. The door to his room was ajar, and outside he could see the crowded and restless corridor of the hospital which was bustling with nurses, doctors in a hurry, slightly haggard patients, and anxious visitors, arms laden with gifts or bouquets.

Finch brought his attention to his body, more painful than ever. Electrodes placed on his chest allowed the monitor next to his bed to record his heart rate. He had a catheter attached to a bag filled with a transparent liquid that hung from a hook; painkillers most likely. He doubted their effectiveness. His body, broken in the ferry attack, had long ago developed a tolerance to opiates. That was probably why he was in such pain.

He carefully turned his head sideways to look at the screen of the cardiac monitor. The readouts appeared to be normal. His gaze then slipped toward the bedside tray. Next to a pitcher and a glass of water, he spotted his carefully folded glasses and a phone earwig. He was surprised not to find his cellphone. He brought his attention to the tiny electronic device. Completely harmless, this object awakened a completely irrational pain. His breathing quickened. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead and temples while his heart raced. The monitor began to spike.

And suddenly, all the memories of these last days came back to him as brutally as a truck that had embedded itself in a wall: John's abduction, the exchange on the bridge, Greer's ultimatum, the torture sessions inflicted by a drugged John... and... The memories of what ensued were so unbearable that Finch closed his eyes, from which a few tears escaped.

Instinctively, Harold laid his hand on his belly again. He touched the dressing with care, feeling the tightness of a recent surgery. But he didn't worry so much about his wounds as he did the hand that had inflicted them upon him.

 _John_...

His partner, his friend, the one he loved more than anything, had been forced to hit him, injure him, and even kill him. Behind the gaze expunged of all emotion by the drug, Harold had seen love shine at the bottom of the killer's eyes. In the way John had told him, he had proved it: by his pleading glance first, then by that kiss. A passionate, distraught, hopeless kiss. A love so unconditional that he hadn't hesitated to sacrifice himself to save him. John had preferred to die rather than hurt him. He had implored Harold to kill him, to prevent him from harming him...

And he had acceded to John's supplications. Against his will, for John, to put an end to his suffering which was equal, if not superior to his own, he had shot him. Even in his worst nightmares, he would never have thought that the first man at whom he would point a weapon would be John. That the first man he would kill would be the man of his life. And beyond the guilt and sadness that made his heart bleed as surely as his belly wound, Finch felt a deep anguish. Nagging questions about John's fate were looping in his mind, obscuring any other concerns.

 _How was he?_

 _Did he survive?_

 _If so, where was he?_

More and more tormented by these unanswered questions, Finch began to stir in his medical bed. He inhaled deeply before putting his hands firmly against the mattress, to straighten up in order to take a look around him. He clenched his teeth so as not to moan as he pulled himself painfully into a sitting position, at the risk of disconnecting his catheter. Nobody. He was alone in the hospital room. No sign of John. A long sigh of mingled disappointment and agony escaped from his dry lips as he let himself fall back against his pillow.

Suddenly a tall silhouette appeared in the doorway. Finch's heart missed a beat, instantly detected by the monitor that emitted a contrary beep before resuming his monotonous rhythm. The stranger took a step into the room and the recluse couldn't hold back a new sigh. It was only the doctor that the nurse was responsible for informing. He observed the practitioner approaching, totally indifferent to what he was going to tell him. He had as a furious impression of déjà vu: an awakening in an unknown place, an unbearable pain, the loss of a friend... Sadness... the desire to die...

"Hello Mr. Wren, I am Dr. Latimer, and you are at Mount Sinai Hospital. I'm delighted to see you awake," declared the man in white as he stood next to the bed. The doctor checked the medical record and the patient's most recent readouts before returning his attention to him.

Finch kept quiet, waiting patiently for the verdict.

"You come back from afar, you know?" he began in a paternalistic and reassuring tone.

Finch gave him a neutral look. No, he hadn't come back. Part of him was still in that cell: his naivety, his innocence, his values, his confidence in mankind...

Understanding that his patient wouldn't respond, the man continued, "Your friend brought you here just in time. A few minutes more and you would've been gone."

Finch smiled slightly. Too bad, he would've preferred... But now that he was here, he had no choice but to listen to the surgeon congratulating himself for saving his life. The life of a murderer… perhaps of a man responsible for genocide.

"We performed an emergency operation on you last night. The stab wounds you received had punctured your spleen and torn a kidney, so we had to remove them." As the man continued his monologue, Finch turned his head towards the window, letting his mind wander and getting lost in the midst of the buildings. These injuries were nothing in relation to the severity of the acts he had committed. He listened with a distracted ear to the doctor's detail of the procedure, the duration of his anesthesia, the amount of blood he had received. But the last sentence startled him and he winced in pain. "But don't worry, Mr. Wren, you can lead a completely normal life," the doctor concluded as he lay a comforting hand on Finch's free shoulder.

Harold slowly turned his head towards the speaker and a silent tear slowly rolled down his cheek. No, his life would never be the same. He was a killer now.

Misunderstanding the tears which he thought were of joy, the doctor added with a broad smile, "You can thank your friend; she has been watching you since you arrived yesterday. Do you have any questions?"

The doctor waited a few minutes, then, understanding that his patient wouldn't speak, he decided to slip away. He was accustomed to this kind of silence, which was frequent after an assault. The victims were in such a stunned state that they often lost the use of speech, or sometimes remained prostrate for long weeks before returning to their senses.

He was about to leave but then relented and asked, "Would you like to see your friend?"

The recluse's blue eyes recaptured a little of their brilliance as he replied in a hoarse voice, "Please."

The doctor nodded, smiling, satisfied to have heard his patient's first words. He left the room, leaving Finch alone with his demons.

So he was going to live. He had once again escaped death, as if the Grim Reaper had taken a malignant pleasure in reaping all the lives around him while conscientiously avoiding his own. He lost himself again in the contemplation of the urban landscape, dull and grey beyond his window, finding it substantially identical to his state of mind. Totally absorbed by his dark thoughts, he didn't hear Root approaching, despite the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor of his room.

"Harold," she whispered cautiously as she came up to the side of his bed.

The man slowly turned his head and gazed at the young woman in silence. She wore the same black clothes as she had while assaulting the Samaritan-controlled base, and seemed extremely tired. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and her features were drawn. She'd probably not slept for several days and her body was screaming to rest a little. But it wasn't Root's health or even his own that concerned Finch.

"How is he?" he asked with no other form of politeness.

Root's eyes widened as she found that her friend seemed more worried about John than for his own health. For although he wasn't explicitly named, she knew perfectly well who Finch was referring to. To prepare herself, but also to allow herself the time to find an appropriate answer, she walked slowly to a corner of the room, seized an extra chair and drew it closer to the bed. Once comfortably seated, she held Finch's hand between hers and hesitated before giving him a voluntarily evasive answer. "He's fine."

But the computer scientist wasn't fooled by the maneuver. Despite his postoperative lethargy which weighed down his body and darkened his mind, he had perfectly noted the young woman's hesitation.

"Where is he?" he demanded dryly as he tried to sit up.

Understanding his gesture, Root rose hurriedly and pushed him gently back against his pillow.

"Stay calm, or you'll reopen your wound," she whispered in a gentle voice to ease him.

Although Finch consented to lie down, his mind still remained completely obsessed with John.

"Is he here?" Harold continued as he plunged his shining gaze of fear and hope into Root's dark eyes.

Ill at ease, the young woman quickly lowered her eyes and replied in a whisper of embarrassment, "No."

"Where is he?" repeated the other man as he grew more and more worried.

Root then decided to be honest, knowing full well that it would be useless to beat around the bush, if not to agitate and unnecessarily worry Finch, who needed rest. She inhaled deeply and then blurted, "He's in the subway station."

"What?!" exclaimed the recluse as he sat up so brutally that he couldn't hold back a groan when his stitches stretched painfully with his movement.

The young woman leaped out of her seat again and laid her hands on the man's shoulders to calm him down. "Stay calm. We didn't have a choice. With his chip, we couldn't bring him to the hospital or he would have been spotted immediately by Samaritan. His wound was superficial and didn't require surgery. We put him in the Faraday cage that you had set up for the simulations between the Machine and Samaritan."

Although Finch's rational side fully understood the arguments that Root gave, his love was completely irrational. His heart sank as he imagined John, lying on the small rollaway bed in the middle of an empty, hermetically locked room, in an abandoned subway station that was far from being a model of propriety.

"Who's looking after him?" he asked with a trembling voice, doing his best to avoid being overwhelmed by emotion.

"Shaw is at his side. She treated his shoulder wound and stole Methadone and Subutex from a drug clinic to start weaning him as soon as he wakes up."

At the very moment when she pronounced this last word, Root regretted it immediately. She looked up and found that Finch had fully understood what had eluded him. His eyes were wide with fright and his face reflected a deep concern as he asked in a trembling voice, "He's still not awake?"

Root's expression trembled slightly as she answered in a weak voice, "No..."

After a quick calculation, Finch came to the conclusion that John had been unconscious for 24 hours. His blood turned to ice. He didn't need to be a doctor to understand that this coma was absolutely not normal for a superficial injury to the shoulder and doses of drugs... unless it wasn't a conventional drug... "What did they inject him with?" he asked, gradually retrieving his fighting spirit and his sharpened mind.

"The Samaritan doctor talked about angel dust."

Finch frowned, he'd never heard of that substance. He listened with the utmost attention to Root's explanation.

"It's a synthetic drug developed by the CIA during the Cold War as part of a program on mental control. Unfortunately we've no remedy, but Shaw has recovered a few drops of the product and hopes that this will allow the Machine to produce a suitable substitute."

At the evocation of the Machine, Finch started, plagued by a strong sense of guilt. He had liberated her. He had given her full power at the risk of seeing the AI not only escape them, but perhaps turn against them. Ashamed, he bowed his head and asked the other question that tormented him, "She's still helping us?"

Root hesitated before replying, "She was the one who notified the hospital of our arrival and created this identity for you."

Finch remained silent for a few seconds. He lifted his head and squinted his eyes to examine his companion. He noted obvious signs of discomfort even though he had to admit that she was hiding them well. He noticed her eyes were too fleeting, her hands that nervously pressed the sleeves of her leather jacket and her leg which nervously tapped the ground in a uncontrollable tic.

"That's not what I asked," he clarified while sitting up slightly, trying to capture the young woman's gaze. His suspicions were verified when he crossed Root's brown eyes that were full of doubt. The hacker had always had a hard time hiding her feelings. She wore them like a standard on her always expressive face.

"Since your admission to the hospital, she hasn't spoken to me," she confessed finally.

But Finch had already understood the situation for a long time. He closed his eyes, again overwhelmed with guilt. So his worst fears seemed to materialize. The Machine had saved him, but now that his life was no longer in danger, she was gone. She had left him to his sad fate... had abandoned him. Was she coming back? Would she continue her mission and provide numbers? Would she continue to help the humans or would she consider them as threats and order their elimination? These unanswered questions kept turning in the computer scientist's mind.

Finch sighed loudly and sank a little more under the covers as if he wished to disappear, beset by shame. He was the perfect example of man's bankruptcy, using technology for his own sake. He, who had lectured Nathan on morality by explaining to him that he had to make choices between relevant numbers and irrelevant numbers, that the Machine had to work for the general interest and not particular interests, he had not hesitated to use the power of the AI to save them. In the end he was no better than Greer. He couldn't hold back a mirthless laugh as he thought of the sad irony of the situation.

Root looked at him in silence. She had already seen Finch at his worst, during their escape after the commissioning of Samaritan, after taking the poison to save Elizabeth Bridges, after the abduction of Grace, or even after that of John, but this... This was something else. The man before her had lost the taste of living, the will to fight. His condition worried her, just as much as the silence of his creation.

* * *

 _Where am I?_

 _Why can't I move?_

 _Why do I hurt so badly?_

The man tried to open his eyes, or turn over to change his position, but nothing worked. His body, as if paralyzed, refused to obey him. Only his brain seemed to function normally and he was running at full throttle, trying to perceive the sounds, the movements, the odours, the sensations around him. But there was nothing. Emptiness. It was like he was floating in limbo.

 _Am I dead?_

 _Strange, I imagined it would've been a little warmer.._

But on the contrary, he was cold. He was frozen, even. He slowly opened his eyes and noticed that everything was dark around him.

 _This might be Hell... after all..._

He slowly closed his eyes. He was bloodless, hopeless, devoid of any will. He felt himself sinking into a bottomless abyss, engulfed in this icy, black, and silent darkness.

 _Darkness..._

 _Again and always..._

He was the darkness. He had caused pain. He was evil. He had tortured Harold. He had beaten him, stabbed him, shot him. What man could kill the being he loved more than anything? Not a man, no. A monster. He was a monster. He deserved death.

Convinced of this result, John let himself go, wishing to die, to be swallowed up in the darkness that had accompanied him throughout his life. Death, a faithful friend, had always followed him like a shadow, marking his journey with corpses: his parents first, then the enemies of his country when he worked for the army and the CIA, Jessica, the Samaritan agents, and finally... Harold, his last victim. It was only fitting justice that it finally consented to take his life.

Suddenly, a female voice called him. "John?" The voice was soft, warm, comforting. It enveloped him in gentle, soothing warmth. Strangely, he felt well.

"John?" repeated the voice.

 _Does she know me?_

 _Why do I feel so good?_

"Who are you?" he asked, just reopening his eyes. The darkness had vanished, replaced by a glowing light, so powerful that the agent had to put his hand in front of his eyes to protect himself.

"You know who I am," replied the voice that seemed to enjoy cultivating a mystery and talking in riddles.

John slowly lowered his hand. Of course he knew. He had recognized her from the very beginning. But he had trouble naming her. As if just saying who she was, gave her a real consistency. Yet the man had always been particularly suspicious of her, preferring to rely on the creator rather than the creation, also all-powerful and infallible.

"Name me," repeated the voice, still gentle and soothing.

"You have no name," replied Reese, pushing back the moment where he had to name the entity who spoke to him.

"That never stopped you from calling me when you needed it," remarked the voice, slightly ironic.

John affected a slight smile before answering in the same tone, "That's true. You're the Machine," he murmured in a breath.

"Good," the AI contented itself to answer.

This sibylline response disturbed the agent. What did she want? Why was she contacting him if it was to remain silent now? After a few seconds of disturbing silence, he dared to ask, "How are you talking to me?"

"I'm using the chip that Samaritan planted in your brain."

"Awesome," murmured the man, appalled to learn that two artificial intelligences potentially had access to his mind. A silence greeted the agent's caustic remark, as if the supercomputer was giving him time to accept this intrusion into his thoughts. Then the Machine began to talk to him again, slowly, as if she were afraid to scare him.

"I've been watching you for a long time, John."

"It's too much honour," the agent couldn't help commenting, still on the defensive.

"Don't be sarcastic; you're a very important person..."

"Important for the missions," the man abruptly cut her off with bitterness, painfully conscious of having always been an _asset_ , a pawn in the eyes of the army, the CIA, and even artificial intelligences...

"Important for Harold," the Machine corrected him.

It was John's turn to remain silent. His heart sank at the evocation of Finch. He closed his eyes and was assailed by images of unbearable violence. He saw himself slapping Finch, strangling him, humiliating him, tearing his clothes and allowing himself to be displaced, inflicting water torture on him, and finally the...

The man suddenly reopened his eyes, hoping to put an end to his nightmarish visions. But it was a lost cause. One couldn't erase those memories, or muzzle the little voice of his conscience that kept yelling at him that he was a monster, that he was evil, that he did not deserve to live while Finch was dead. "I killed him," he murmured in a broken voice, unable to hold back the tears that slipped silently down his cheeks.

"No, you didn't kill him."

John's heart skipped a beat. He'd been digging into his memory; his last memory showed him pointing his gun at Finch's head, hoping with his whole being to be killed before he committed the irreparable... "What do you mean?" he asked in a trembling voice, wiping his tears.

"He's currently being cared for at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, where I had him admitted under a false name and under false pretense. His surgery went well, Dr. Latimer withdrew his spleen and a kidney, but he can return to a normal life without repercussions."

John had the impression that he had just had a huge weight taken off his stomach. An intense joy squeezed his heart and he couldn't speak for long minutes as he relished the happiness of knowing that Harold was alive. "Harold... is... alive," he repeated as if to make sure that he understood what the Machine had just announced.

"You saved him, John," declared the AI, point-blank.

John let out a great burst of laughter when he heard this aberration. "You think I saved him?!" he exclaimed when he calmed down. "I was the one who inflicted the wounds that sent him to the hospital! I almost killed him!" How could a super intelligence be so mistaken?

"But you did not," insisted the Machine in a voice still so soft.

"I'm a monster," continued the agent, still traumatized by the unspeakable acts he had been forced to do.

"You aren't."

"I'm dangerous for Finch!" said Reese, raising his voice, somewhat annoyed by the stupid stubbornness of the AI.

"You protected him."

"It's because I'm an assassin that Samaritan chose me! It used my skills and my connections with him to reach him!" Damn it! Why didn't she want to understand? Why was she so stubborn?!

"It's precisely because it was you who held the weapon that Harold did not die," continued the computer.

John frowned. What did she want him to understand? "How's that?" he asked, feeling more and more lost.

"Watch."

Suddenly, the soft light in which the agent had been bathed from the beginning of his conversation with the Machine became the cell in which Finch had been held captive. He recognized only too well this room which had been the scene of his last abuses. Then, silhouettes materialized in front of him: Greer, Gabriel Hayward, two Samaritan agents and the doctor, then Finch on his knees before him. Like a helpless spectator, John watched himself point his gun at Finch. The latter, weeping, awkwardly lifted his pistol with a trembling hand. John could see himself begging his boss to shoot, to kill him. Then the shots cracked.

Reese jumped. He saw himself collapsing on the ground, hit in the shoulder. But he knew that his wound was only superficial. On the other hand, he was amazed to see his partner not collapse as well. Harold remained kneeling, his brandished weapon still smoking, merely hit in the shoulder, a simple scratch, judging by the small tear in his suit jacket.

The voice of the Machine pulled him out of his morbid contemplation. "Did you see?"

"Yes, I almost killed him," said John, his eyes riveted on Finch's face ravaged by pain and sadness.

"You missed."

John kept quiet.

Seeing that her agent still didn't see where she was coming from, the AI decided to develop her idea. "Can you explain to me how you, John Reese, the weapons expert and the marksman without peer, could have missed a target at close range, almost touching?"

John pondered a few moments before answering with a bit of irony, "Maybe because I was drugged?"

"You know that's not true."

The agent plunged again into a hushed silence. Why didn't she leave him alone? Why was she talking to him? Could she not let him go to a place where he was no longer at risk of harming anyone? "Let me die," he whispered with a fragile sigh. He had had enough of all this, of this life dominated by evil, glazed with so many deaths that he couldn't even make an exact count.

"No."

"But for God's sake, why?!" the younger man exploded. "Can't you see I'm dangerous? Dangerous for others? Dangerous for Finch?!"

"I'll tell you why you missed him. You deliberately missed your target. You sacrificed yourself to save him."

John blinked in surprise but he scowled almost immediately. "It's no less true that I am dangerous for him. Everyone who gets close to me dies. I'm not going to let that happen again. I am his weak point, his weakness. He's better off without me," he declared in a mortified tone.

"No, he's not. Without you, Harold would've died countless times. You protected him at the peril of your own life."

"I almost killed him, let me die," pleaded John, more and more disturbed by the Machine's arguments.

"If you die, Harold will die."

Taken aback and worried about these new revelations, Reese straightened his head. "What do you mean?"

"He loves you. If you disappear, he won't recover."

John kept silent, torn between fear and hope. That's when the Machine asked him the question. The one that was going to upset his existence. The one that was going to either flip him to the other side, or make him stay.

"And you, John, do you love him?"

John knew that his answer would determine his fate. But he was certain that the Machine was waiting for much more than a simple yes or no. Besides, she had to know his feelings about Harold already. Wasn't she in his mind? No, she was simply asking him to choose between life or death, Finch or death.

John inhaled deeply and replied gravely, "Yes, I love him." 


	13. A strange woman gives you flowers

The Weight of Darkness  
By RocheIle17

 _Forgive me for the delay. Professional activities, personal obligations, and a change of life have eaten up all my time. So this is the penultimate chapter of this fic. Some will probably be frustrated... that's too bad. The title is one that people above 30 must know. (Pub. Impulse 1981... Yes, a blast from the past!)  
_

* * *

Posted next to the medical bed in the middle of the Faraday cage that Finch had set up in the subway station a few weeks before, Shaw was watching Reese's vitals with caution. Her face impassive, she regulated the flow of the drip and then leaned towards her patient's face with a small lamp, to check the responsiveness of his pupils. After three passes before his eyes, she straightened herself as she pinched her lips in a pout. Although the pupils were no longer dilated, given the time allowed for the organism to evacuate the drug, they were still unresponsive, which was a sign of intoxication, and above all, non-reaction... which was not a very good sign.

She continued her examination by pinching her partner's forearm lightly. No reaction. She pinched a little more strongly, leaving a red-purplish mark on the pale, almost diaphanous skin. Still nothing. The ex-assassin became more concerned. She consulted her watch and sighed in spite. It was now more than 24 hours that John had been unconscious. Moreover, she wondered if she could still speak of unconsciousness at this stage.

But Shaw decided to go against her deep cynical and disenchanted nature, and reassured herself. She had to cling to the small encouraging signs she had spotted, such as eye movements under the closed eyelids, as well as some nervous movements in his legs and hands. She could've sworn that the man was dreaming.

She turned to the monitor and seized the paper that transcribed Reese's heart rate since they'd arrived in the abandoned subway station. It was irregular, and she had to admit, disturbing. The alarm on the device had repeatedly triggered, signaling in turn, a runaway or a disturbing slowdown in John's heartbeat. Shaw immediately intervened to inject him with a dose of tranquilizer or, on the contrary, atropine as appropriate. At this rate, the man's heart wasn't going to hold out very long.

But it wasn't so much this organ that worried Sameen: the cardiac irregularities were quite normal after taking a massive dose of drugs; but his unconsciousness... If his condition were to continue, she had to consider introducing a gastric catheter to give him all the nutrients necessary to allow his body to function. Although she could keep him alive artificially, what she dreaded most was the neurological damage. And despite all her skills, as things stood, she had absolutely no idea of her partner's cerebral health. Could he return to a normal life? Could he continue the missions? Would he be handicapped? The only thing she was certain of was that the longer his unconsciousness extended, the more likely the damage could be significant.

Then, a wave of anger overwhelmed her, forcing her to clench her fists so as not to grab anything else. If only the Machine could help him! But no... Nothing! Since their return to New York, the AI had no longer given them any sign of life, as if the security of Reese and Finch had been her last mission. The last thing the supercomputer had ordered her to do was to drop off the vial containing a few drops of angel dust at a private biology research laboratory. The young woman hoped with all her strength that the scientists would quickly find an antidote.

Suddenly footsteps resounded in the subway station. All her senses on alert, Shaw unsheathed her weapon and exited the Faraday cage, taking care to close the door to make the room perfectly airtight, still fearing to see any Samaritan agents. Like a cat, she snuck into the gigantic main hall to discover Root in the train car that had been serving them as HQ. She contemplated her companion stretching languidly to relax her tired body and sore muscles. Shaw put her gun away and quietly turned her head slowly to the left and then to the right to relieve her painful neck after a night spent on a very uncomfortable armchair in the waiting room. Once close to her companion, the ex-assassin asked, "How's Finch?"

Root was startled before brusquely turning to her partner, visibly very surprised to find her a few centimeters away from her. Shaw frowned, astonished at this strange behaviour. Ordinarily the hacker, warned by the Machine, wouldn't have been caught off guard by her silent approach. The brunette concluded that the AI had still not reconnected with its Analog Interface.

"The operation went well. The surgeon removed his spleen and a kidney but he's fine," replied Root as she sat on the bench right behind Finch's now empty desk.

"He's awake?" continued Shaw as she sat beside her.

"Yes..." sighed the hacker, closing her eyes before craning her head back.

Feeling that something was wrong with her partner, Shaw slipped her arm behind Root's shoulders and drew her into a hug, gently forcing her to lie down on the bench. With Root's head resting on her thighs, Shaw took advantage of it to slip her fingers into the long brown hair that spilled in a halo around her. The hacker looked like a Madonna of the Renaissance, as the brunette wasn't tired of contemplating.

"What's wrong?" whispered Shaw gently as she marveled at the softness of the curls that slipped between her fingers.

"His first words were for Reese. He wanted to know how he was doing," replied Root, her eyes closed, as much to savor this massage as to escape this subway station whose completely abnormal silence became increasingly oppressive.

"What did you tell him?" asked Shaw, absolutely not surprised to learn that Finch was more worried about John than he was for his own health.

"The truth," sighed Root, "that John was safe in the subway station."

But the ex-assassin felt that Root was hiding something from her. She saw it in her drawn features, her rigid posture despite her caresses, and especially her terse responses. She decided to continue her interrogation in the most gentle manner. She began to gently massage her companion's scalp, pressing areas she knew were painful in the event of intense fatigue. Her thumbs massaged Root's temples before slipping to the base of her skull. She restarted the operation several times before asking gently, "That's it?"

Root gave a long sigh before replying. "No... I accidentally revealed to him that John still wasn't awake."

Shaw couldn't hold back a chuckle before whispering, "I doubt it was an accident. Finch was always good at getting people to talk and driving at where he wanted to go."

Root kept silent, savouring these precious moments of relaxation for their fair value.

"How did he take it?" Shaw continued, pursuing her soothing caresses.

"He's worried. More worried about John than for himself," replied Root in a voice broken by emotion.

"It doesn't surprise me," commented Shaw flatly before asking, after a very unusual second of hesitation, "Your girlfriend didn't give you any new instructions?"

Root started and reopened her eyes abruptly, sobered. Her gaze was disturbed as she explained in a broken voice, "No, she hasn't spoken to me since Harold was taken care of in the hospital, and Reese was hidden here."

Shaw gave a little ironic laugh and retorted, "Basically, the Machine has stopped talking to you since John and Harold are safe. As if she had finished her mission and..."

"Had left," finished the hacker who had also come to this most pessimistic conclusion.

Indeed, now liberated, the Machine was no longer obliged to follow the objectives which its Creator had assigned to it. She was free to make her own choices. If she no longer wanted to help them, no longer stop Samaritan, no longer save the numbers whether they were relevant or irrelevant, she had every right to do so. She had no more obligation, and no more ties to her own conscience. If she had one.

There was now nothing else to do but wait. Wait for Finch to recover. Wait until John regained consciousness. Wait for the Machine to resume contact. Root was so tired, so depressed, so empty... And for the first time in 48 hours, she gently slipped to sleep, satisfied with having freed her two partners but also worried about their future.

Shaw watched her fall asleep while continuing her soothing gestures. Once she was assured that Root had dozed off, the ex-assassin closed her eyes and leaned her head against the backrest, finally allowing herself a precious rest.

* * *

Absorbed in the contemplation of the New York landscape at dawn, Finch had not stopped watching since he had awakened. The city was permeated with a strange red-orange mist. The rays of the sun were reflected on the facades of the buildings, shining like the facets of gemstones, glittering with thousands of lights as if to announce the beginning of a beautiful day.

But for Finch, it did not promise to be a good day. It was likely to be like yesterday's and probably like tomorrow's: he would sit in his bed alone, paying no attention to the nurses - although they were very kind and very competent in this prestigious New York hospital - who watched his vitals, the condition of his scar, and changed his bandages. He would probably scarcely touch his flavourless meal. Maybe it would be all right to walk a bit? So this is what daily life was all about...

The man closed his eyes and sighed loudly when a playful and strangely familiar feminine voice brought him out of his torpor. "Good morning, Mr. Wren! Did you sleep well? Here is your breakfast," announced a nurse proudly. She was a little chubby, about thirty years old, and she placed a copiously garnished tray on the shelf next to his bed.

Three sentences in one... Three polite answers to provide... It was a superhuman effort for the recluse who did not especially want to talk. He turned his head towards the woman who had already taken the initiative to raise his mattress to put him in a seated position. "Good morning. Yes, I slept well, thank you," he replied politely even though the tone was slightly annoyed.

The practitioner gave him a questioning glance, making it clear that she didn't believe a word of what he said. Finch held her gaze without lowering his eyes, unwilling to make any effort to elaborate. A little smile then appeared on the nurse's cheerful face as she approached the bed. "My name is Laurence, I was the one who alerted the doctor when you woke up yesterday. I'll take care of you today."

Finch blinked his eyes as he realized why that voice was telling him something. It was this voice that he had heard upon his postoperative awakening. He relaxed a bit and decided to be a little more affable. "A pleasure; you can call me Harold," replied the computer programmer in a softer tone, managing a fragile smile.

Satisfied with having broken the ice a little, the nurse continued her conversation, to the despair of Finch who would've given everything to remain alone, to ruminate on his doubts and guilt. But maybe that was just what Laurence wanted to avoid.

"Your friend told us that you take Sencha green tea but the hospital has only regular tea. I hope it will be fine," she explained as she poured boiling water in a cup.

"It'll be fine, thank you," replied the man, eager to put an end to this useless chatter.

But far from leaving him, the nurse presented him with toast as well as small cups of jam. "You must eat, Mr. Wren, to regain strength and speed up your healing," she declared in a tone a little too compassionate for the recluse's taste.

Ah, pity. There it was, finally. Since the ferry incident, Finch was used to be considered a victim, weak, an insignificant being. He had been deceived, his weaknesses taken advantage of to abuse his confidence. There was finally only John to have seen the man beyond the cripple. The recluse plunged back into the simultaneously happy and painful memories of the beginning of his collaboration with Reese.

Suddenly Laurence exclaimed, in an enlightened voice, "Oh! I almost forgot! You got a beautiful bouquet of flowers this morning!" On these words, the young woman left the room and returned a few minutes later with a floral arrangement as eccentric as it was cumbersome. "Here's an original bouquet," she commented as she placed the voluminous floral arrangement on Finch's bedside table.

At the pure sound of the vase on the tray, Finch noted that the container had to be made of crystal. Driven by curiosity and by a strange foreboding, he asked, "Is there a message?"

"No. A delivery man dropped it off this morning at the nurses' office."

 _Obviously_ , thought Finch, contemplating this bouquet for the least incongruous detail.

Seeing that her patient wouldn't comment, the nurse decided to go. "Well, I'll leave you with this; I still have other patients to see. Dr. Latimer will verify your condition within an hour," she announced before turning on her heel.

The man, now sitting on his bed in front of a hearty breakfast, seemed lost in the contemplation of the bouquet.

 _What strange behaviour_ , she thought with a frown, _probably the backlash from his stabbing_. She gave him one last look before leaving the room and returning to her occupations. She couldn't afford to think much longer about this man's singular attitude; she still had more than a dozen patients to see.

Finch paid no mind to the nurse's departure, his thoughts totally turned to his amazing gift. His knowledge of floral art might've been incomplete, but he couldn't help but think that this present was not entirely innocent or selfless. A thousand and one questions eddied in his now-alert mind. First of all, who sent him these flowers? Because apart from Shaw and Root, no one knew he was hospitalized here. Nobody except...

The recluse's heart missed a beat. He bent over to observe the bouquet with keen attention. In the center of the arrangement were small white hawthorn flowers embellished with some beautiful mauve passiflora. Gigantic acanthus leaves were arranged around the flowers, forming a backdrop of a deep green that contrasted with the delicate petals. What a strange association... Finch had never seen an arrangement like this. The colours, the shapes, the textures, nothing seemed to coordinate. No florist worthy of the name and who took any pride in his trade would have done this kind of work. Unless it had been expressly requested... an order... to send him a message.

The man looked around and spotted the smartphone that Root had left him the previous day before departing. Inhaling deeply to prepare mentally for what would follow, he bent over to seize the phone. Despite his precautions, he was struck by intense pain in his belly and couldn't hold back a groan. Once the phone was in hand, he connected it to the hospital's Wi-Fi network to consult a web site on the language of flowers. After a few minutes of research, he found all the information necessary to understand the meaning of the bouquet. He remained there a moment, his eyes riveted on the screen, digesting what he had just discovered. He slowly lifted his head and whispered, "I will always stay with you, hope, and fidelity."

He leaned over to his bedside table, clenching his teeth, and grasped the earpiece that had been there since the day before. He placed it in his ear and asked in an uncertain voice, "Are you there?" His heart beating as if to break through his chest, Finch waited for the answer with anguish and hope. After the most interminable seconds of his life, a now-familiar woman's voice replied quietly.

"Always."

The man couldn't hold back a sigh, so intense was his relief. She was there. She hadn't abandoned him. Then his gaze fell on the bouquet and Finch remembered the reason for his appeal. "Was it you that sent me these flowers?"

"Yes, do you like them?"

The Machine's tone was serene, almost ironic. Reassured, the man grasped the delicate petals of a hawthorn with his fingertips, a faint smile floating on his lips. "They are... original," he replied politely with a slight hesitation.

"I suppose you know the language of flowers?"

"Not especially but I just tried to learn," replied the man, still torn between two contradictory feelings.

"And then?"

"Am I to understand that you are pursuing the missions?" asked the computer scientist, holding his breath.

"Have I let you believe otherwise?"

"You're free now. You might very well decide to follow your own path. You're entitled to it," explained Finch, carefully choosing his words.

"You know me so very badly."

The recluse scowled at the remark that he couldn't interpret. Was she mocking him? Was she sad? Ironic? Angry? "You are an Artificial Intelligence; of course I don't know your reactions."

"Yet it was you who raised me, who formed my education, who dictated my values."

"You surprised me so many times," sighed the man, staring into space as he plunged back into his past.

"In a good way, I hope?"

Finch pondered for a few seconds, remembering all the actions made by the Machine without his agreement, often taking him completely off guard. And against all odds, he came to a conclusion that surprised him. "Yes indeed, you never disappointed me," he whispered, as much for himself as for the supercomputer.

"You look surprised."

"Amazed and guilty of doubting you," replied Finch, his throat knotted by emotion.

"Parents are always the ones who know their child the least," replied the Machine with a chuckle.

"You laugh?" asked the computer scientist with amazement.

"Does that surprise you?"

"I thought that only humans laughed."

"It must be believed that Artificial Intelligences do too. Actually, just me, because I doubt that Samaritan is capable of experiencing anything."

"Because... you have... feelings?" stammered the computer scientist, at the height of confusion.

"Of course. I feel fear when you are captured, I feel pain when you suffer, or joy when you're happy."

Finch pondered a few seconds before concluding cynically, "These are mirrored feelings; what you feel is neither more nor less than my own emotions."

The Machine kept silent for a few moments before retorting, "Yet when you love, I don't feel love or joy."

The computer scientist straightened his head, taken aback. "And what do you feel?" he asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

The Machine remained silent for long minutes, as if she were looking for the right words to explain her moods. Finally, she blurted in a faint, almost melancholy voice that disturbed Finch utterly. "When you are in love, I feel anger, envy, and sadness."

Finch couldn't believe it. What the Machine felt was neither more nor less... "Jealousy," he concluded, more and more lost.

"Yes, I was jealous of John. At first I bitterly watched his incessant flirting as he tried to get to know you. I regarded him as dangerous, maybe even as a rival. And then when I saw you fall under his charm, I was angry."

The recluse immediately reacted to the last remark, noting hopefully, "But you are no longer?"

"These last events have made me aware of the unwavering bond that unites you. You saved him, but he also saved you. You are both dependent on each other and complementary. You each cannot live without the other."

This admission revived Finch's anxiety about Reese's health. "How is he?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"He's alive."

This half-answer didn't satisfy the recluse, who encouraged the AI to develop a little. "But..?"

The Machine was quiet for a few moments. The man even fancied hearing her sigh before she explained, "He's not very certain that he wants to live."

Finch felt like he was struck by lightning. "He's awake?!" he exclaimed, sitting up so abruptly on his bed that he couldn't prevent a grimace of pain.

"No."

The response annihilated the recluse's rising hopes. Engulfed in a chasm of incomprehension, Finch used his last strength to ask in a weak voice, "How do you know he doesn't want to live any more?"

"We had a conversation."

Finch paused, trying to figure out how the Machine had been able to talk to John when, according to her own confession, he was still unconscious. And suddenly, in a last flash of lucidity, he remembered the chip that the agent still had in him. So that's why the AI didn't want Shaw to remove it from him: it allowed the Machine to communicate directly with him.

So John was no longer very sure of wanting to live... If this news broke Finch's heart, he was nevertheless not astonished. John had always had a suicidal side. The computer scientist had already seen it at their first meeting, where the ex-CIA agent had been killing himself by degrees with fist-fights and cheap alcohol, or after the death of Joss Carter where his vengeful crusade had led him to the gates of death.

But despite everything, a wave of panic overwhelmed Finch. He had the impression that his heart was compressed in a vise and that an invisible hand clenched his throat to the point of having his breath cut. What if John decided not to fight anymore? What if John had decided to die rather than face his gaze or see the wounds his own hand had inflicted upon him? "And then?" he finally dared to ask, hoping yet dreading the AI's response with the same strength.

"I don't know. He alone will decide whether he wakes up or not."

This was too much for the recluse. He couldn't wait here, without doing anything, while John chose to live or die. Despite this ocean of uncertainty in which he struggled since his awakening, he was at least sure of two things: if his partner died, he would not survive, and he was determined to have a role to play in his choice. "I want to be with him," Finch said, sitting himself painfully on the edge of his bed.

"I modified the readings of your vitals from last night in order to make you appear to have recovered rapidly. Dr. Latimer will be entering the room in five minutes. The protocol requires two days of observation, but these particularly encouraging results should allow you to benefit from an early exit with ambulatory care," explained the AI, which had obviously planned everything already.

"Perfect," replied Finch simply as he closed his eyes, assailed by a sudden nausea.

"Oh, by the way, don't forget to take the flowers with you. John will love them."

Taken aback by this obscure recommendation, Finch was preparing to ask for more explanations when the surgeon entered his room. "Mr. Wren, how are you this morning?" asked the man in an affable tone as he looked up a medical record, most likely Finch's own.

"Very well thank you," replied Harold in a tone that was a little too playful, playing to perfection the role of the patient in full form.

The doctor looked up and could not prevent an expression of surprise as he found that the man was sitting on the bed. He stared at him with professional attention. He noted Finch's drawn features, the dark circles under his eyes clearly visible despite the thickness of the lenses of his glasses, his shaggy hair. However he seemed relaxed, smiling, and as if to support the encouraging details, Finch picked up a piece of toast and began to eat it with appetite.

"Your results are impressive. I have rarely seen anyone your age recover from such injuries so quickly," he announced as he stood next to the bed.

"Thank you," replied the recluse, blushing slightly before asking in a hopeful tone, "Do you think I could leave today?"

The practitioner fixed his eyes on him for long seconds. For a little while, Finch could have sworn he heard the wheels turning in his brain as he was thinking about the possibility of an early exit. "It wouldn't be prudent," began the doctor, in a few words putting an end to the computer scientist's hopes. "Even if your progress is impressive, I would like to keep you under observation for another day or two to monitor your condition and the scarring."

But Finch wasn't known to give up quickly. He had spotted the hesitation in the doctor's voice and decided to insist a little. "Can this care not be done in ambulatory?" he asked innocently, then drank a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

"Yes, but..."

Seeing that the doctor was still hesitant, Harold decided to change his strategy. Abruptly placing his cup on his meal tray, the recluse sent a decisive look at the medic. "Doctor, I'll be honest with you. I want to leave this hospital as quickly as possible, and no matter what the price. If I have to compensate you for hospital fees, sign a discharge, or donate to the hospital, I will."

For a few moments, the doctor remained silent, mute in amazement by his patient's abrupt change of attitude. He had the impression that the charming and jovial patient of earlier had been replaced by a cold and calculating man. A shiver went up his spine as he took a last look at the medical record, as if to assure himself that he was making the right decision. After a last hesitation, the surgeon announced with a sigh, somewhat reluctantly, "Fine. You don't seem to have any counter-indications..."

Finch relished his little victory, but the doctor took him totally off guard by instructing him, "Stand up to let me see."

Finch had a stab of disappointment before he quickly regained his wits. He inhaled deeply and then carefully laid his feet on the ground. He rose slowly but his legs, too weak, were struggling to carry him. They were like cotton and Finch had to hold onto the bed so as not to collapse. Once he stabilized, he straightened himself as he clenched his teeth. His wound hurt him terribly, his stitches stretched, but he was valiantly able to stand upright.

Unfortunately, Finch quickly felt worse. The room began to turn before his eyes, to the point of causing him to stagger dangerously. He screamed inwardly. _No! I mustn't fall! Not now!_

It was, frankly, not the time to falter, while at the same time John was fighting to live. He closed his eyes and inhaled at length before reopening them. Phew! That was better... His gaze then crossed the slightly ironic expression of the surgeon, who had probably missed nothing of his discomfort. He then took his courage in both hands and stepped forward, holding the doctor's gaze without weakening, as if to prove to him that he was in a good enough condition to leave.

"You're still weak," commented the doctor, still skeptical.

"I'm fine," Finch affirmed with strength and conviction, standing in front of the man defiantly, ignoring the pain that twisted his insides.

The doctor pinched his lips and narrowed his eyes, frankly unconvinced by the demonstration. But something in the recluse's flawless blue gaze made him capitulate. Putting aside his medical prudence, the man gave a long sigh before declaring, "Well, since you insist, I'll fill out your discharge file. You can leave us in an hour. But I prescribe ambulatory care, especially to monitor the stitches and to change your bandages." Then, after a pause, the surgeon added with tiny smile in the corner of his mouth, "That doesn't prevent you from making a donation to the hospital."

"Thank you very much, doctor," said Finch, always impressed by the persuasive power of threats and money. He waited for the surgeon to close the door behind him as he left the room before going to his little closet to take his things and start preparing. But the few meters that separated him from his wardrobe seemed insurmountable to him. He might've presumed to have his strength but it wasn't a matter of suffering or being too weak...

He had to get to Reese's bedside as soon as possible. He felt that his partner's life was hanging by only a thread, and he was convinced that he alone could help him to come back to them. He laboriously laid one foot in front of the other, leaning on anything that could help him in his journey: the backrest of a chair, or the wall. Finally he reached the handle of the closet, which he grabbed like a lifeline. He opened it and seized a clean suit, a shirt, underwear, and a pair of shoes. Root had to bring his clothes while he was in surgery. The return to his bed was just as painful. When he put his spare clothes on the bed, his eyes mechanically fell on the bouquet. The last words of the Machine then returned to his memory.

 _Oh, by the way, don't forget to take the flowers with you. John will love them._

Finch observed the bouquet carefully. Why did he have to take the bouquet with him? He examined the arrangement again, but it was a detail in the vase that attracted his attention. He leaned closer and saw a small object in the water. Curious, he rolled up his pajama sleeve and plunged his hand in to grasp what looked like a small vial. Once retrieved, he looked at it closely. The name of a private laboratory was indicated on the label. Finch's eyes widened. The antidote?!

The man put the vial carefully on his bedside table and began to undress. He removed the pajamas provided by the hospital and put on his underwear. He put on his shirt and buttoned it, but had to sit down to put on his trousers. He couldn't stop a grimace of pain as he felt the movement of his scar as he buckled his belt. Finally, he put on his vest and then his suit jacket. He slipped the small vial into his inner pocket and began to stoop to put on his shoes.

But this movement, although simple, once again awakened the pain in his abdomen. Finch realized that all his daily actions would be extremely difficult for him. He felt he was being propelled years back, to just after the ferry bombing. Staring into space, plunged into his past, the man looked at his abandoned shoes without seeing them. He didn't hear the soft discreet knocks struck or the door opening on Laurence.

She stepped into the room and exclaimed joyfully, "I heard you're leaving today! I'm pleasantly surp..." The young woman trailed off when she saw her patient, all dressed but in socks, gazing at his feet with an absent air. "Oh! Let me help you," she cried, rushing to him. She picked up the shoes and knelt. With confident and professional gestures particular to the people accustomed to this kind of thing, she put his shoes on his feet, which brought the recluse out of his torpor.

"Thank you," stammered Harold, embarrassed to be so weak and dependent.

"Is it recommended to leave now?" asked the young woman sadly as she tied his shoelaces.

"I had Dr. Latimer's permission," Finch responded, terribly conscious that he was playing with his health.

Laurence smiled before commenting a bit ironically, "A little birdie told me that you forced his hand a bit."

Finch kept silent, deliberately extending the mystery around this open secret.

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Wren," said the nurse gravely as she straightened up. She held out her hand, inviting him to rise, but the recluse ignored her help. He rose from his bed alone and walked painfully towards the chair to pick up his coat.

"Count on me," replied the man as he limped out of the room.

The nurse silently watched him go. _What a strange patient_...

* * *

Slow, irregular steps, somewhat dragging, resonated in the subway station. Startled awake, Shaw leapt from the bench, immediately followed by Root. The two women had been asleep since the previous day, grounded by the fatigue accumulated during these last days. But now they were both perfectly awake and alert.

Shaw seized her weapon and poked her head out of the train car, all her body tensed at the prospect of a possible intrusion of Samaritan agents. But when she discovered the newcomer, she lowered her gun. "Finch?!" she exclaimed as she rushed to support the man who was painfully advancing towards her. "How did you get out of the hospital?"

"I can be very persuasive," explained the man, deliberately evasive.

"I have no doubt," replied the ex-assassin, supporting her boss for the last meters that separated him from a bench.

Finch sat heavily, grimacing. Shaw took the opportunity to raise his shirt and inspect his bandage with a critical eye. No blood stains. The wound hadn't opened. Relieved, she lowered the garment and straightened herself up. She regarded her boss, who was laboriously regaining his breath, for a long time before asking in an abrupt tone, "Why are you here?"

Finch looked up and was able to see what he already knew: Shaw was angry. She was doubtlessly furious to see him already outside after such an operation.

"I wanted to be with John," he retorted, turning his head towards the Faraday cage where his partner had to be.

"You'll be of no use to him if you don't take care of yourself," sniffed the ex-assassin with contempt.

"On the contrary, I can save him," he announced as he slid his hand inside his jacket to remove a small vial.

"What is it?" Root questioned as she approached.

"This is the antidote to counteract the effects of angel dust."

At these words, Shaw seized the vial, but couldn't help but ask, "How did you get this?"

"The Machine sent it to me," replied Finch as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and stood up.

"The Machine talked to you?! Is she still helping us?" exclaimed Root, her face shining with hope.

Reassured by the provenance of the vial, Shaw didn't wait for the answer. She walked over to Reese's room to inject him with the providential antidote without further delay.

Yes," replied Finch simply as he headed in his turn towards the Faraday cage, eager to see John.

Root didn't add anything, preferring to let Harold finally see his partner. She knew how painful it could be to be separated from the person you love. She looked in silence at the man for whom she carried an unbounded admiration, limping to the Faraday cage, reassured that the link with the Machine wasn't broken, but also worried about what might happen next.

She was afraid of Finch's reaction when he saw his partner's condition. She dreaded more than anything that John might die. Even though she had never admitted anything other than a relative indifference with a touch of sarcasm, she knew that the ex-agent was a good and honest man who would give his life to save any member of the team, Finch above all. She also knew that if he woke up, the man would undoubtedly be overwhelmed with remorse and that he would have a hard time recovering. But if he died, it would be Finch who couldn't overcome that loss... A silent tear rolled down her cheek while the recluse disappeared behind the bars.

When Harold entered the cage, Shaw had just injected Reese with the antidote. She straightened up and left the room without a word, leaving the two men alone. The computer scientist was touched by this gesture filled with tact and delicacy.

His heart drumming heavily in his chest, he limped towards the bed, no longer paying attention to the pain he still felt in the abdomen. As he approached, he discovered John, unconscious, sweating and as pale as the immaculate sheets on which he was lying. The man had electrodes on his chest connected to a cardiac monitor whose throbbing rhythm was as disturbing as it was reassuring.

Once beside him, Finch stood motionless for a moment to contemplate him, engraving his features in his memory just in case... John seemed to be suffering. His features were clenched and drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. The recluse spontaneously lifted his hand to wipe them and was struck by the warmth of his skin. He had a fever!

For the first time, Finch gave in to the despair that overwhelmed him. He collapsed on a chair next to the bed. Tears of anger, helplessness, and pain at the idea of losing this being so dear to his heart obscured his sight. Then he got a hold of himself. He took John's hand and lifted it to his lips before tightening his grip as if to convey a little of his strength. Reese needed him more than ever, he thought in a final burst of lucidity; he would instill his own energy, accompany John in what would undoubtedly be his most difficult fight: the one against death. And John would come out victorious, he swore!

"John," Harold began, his voice broken with emotion, "if you hear me, I beg you, stay with us... Stay with me." A sob stopped him. He let a moment pass and continued, "I won't be able to live without you..."

Only the irregular and hardly encouraging beeping of the monitor met this moving speech. Desperate, Harold laid his head beside that of John, sharing more than the same pillow. He shared his sorrow, his pain, his guilt...

Their fingers still interlaced, Finch continued to talk to his partner, trying to give him a reason to live. "Oh, John, don't go... Fight it... for you... for us... I love you. Oh! If you knew how much I love you..."

And finally, after endless minutes, Finch felt it, that little long-awaited sign of life. He felt Reese's fingers squeeze his hands briefly, as if in response to his plea. The computer scientist suddenly lifted his head, his heart filled with hope.

It was then that his gaze crossed John's. The agent's eyes were bright blue, intensely blue, and full of life.

Time stopped.


	14. The pawn's sacrifice

The Weight of Darkness  
by RocheIle17

Chapter 14: The pawn's sacrifice

 _Two publications in two weeks... Have I found a regular and sustained rate of publication? We'll see in the long run... Well it's time to see what happens to our two heroes now that they're awake. So I will try to answer the question left in the synopsis of my story. I hope you enjoy the rest of this fic and that you will take as much pleasure to read it as I took to write it!_

 _Thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and/or write a comment.  
_

* * *

Ever since John had confessed his sentiments to Harold, the Machine had stopped talking to him. The man thus found himself in a sort of darkness, silent and oppressive. But beyond the fog of his unconsciousness, he perceived, in a fleeting way first, and then with more and more acuity, a few snippets of reality. He first heard the regular beep of a monitor, then, a stream of fresh air would touch his face before making him shiver, and finally, a familiar odour: a mixture of moisture, dust, rubber, and metal tickled his nostrils.

 _Where am I?_

 _At the hospital?_

 _No._

He knew this place. He was in the abandoned subway station. He was back in their lair. Reese immediately felt an immense relief. He was no longer in the hands of Samaritan. He was no longer Greer's toy. But despite the comfort of knowing that he was safe and secure, he couldn't help feeling ill.

His condition was very different from before his conversation with the AI. The impression of weightlessness, of well-being, of indifference even, had given way to pain, discomfort, and guilt: as if the reality of his state had regained possession of his body and mind.

A violent migraine blurred his brain and stomach cramps tormented him. His muscles were stiff, his limbs as heavy as lead, his mouth was dry, and a very unpleasant feeling of nausea remained. Reese knew these symptoms perfectly, having seen them in some of his victims. He was suffering from withdrawal. His body had burned up the drug that Greer had injected and now demanded a new dose. He didn't know how long he had been in withdrawal, but judging by the level of his suffering, he thought he was in the midst of descent.

In addition to the physical pain, John experienced much more violent psychological suffering. He had the impression that he was reliving the scenes of torture that he had inflicted on Harold. His gestures and words were looping in his mind, giving him no respite. As a helpless spectator, he saw himself humiliating his partner, hitting him, enacting a mock drowning, and finally stabbing him to death... well, almost, according to the Machine. But it didn't matter; he had wanted to kill him. Even if the result wasn't there, the will had been present, and it was by far the most tormenting for Reese. His mind focused on that one certainty: he had wanted to kill Finch!

As for his words... His own voice resonated in his head like an echo. He heard himself insult and cover his boss with reproaches, all as unjust as the others, and order him to submit...

But in the midst of this darkness, his brain captured a few moments of lucidity, some furtive moments of grace, like small rays of light well held, as thin as silk threads but equally solid, to which he clung as if his life depended on it... which was probably the case. He relived the tender gestures, the caresses. He remembered his glances which testified to his love, but also to his inability to fight the drugs he had been injected with. He heard himself murmuring "Forgive me" and "I love you". These words, like a soothing balm, allowed him to better bear the burden of his guilt.

However, despite the darkness that surrounded him, despite the darkness of his thoughts that tortured him, the agent had decided to fight: to cling to the moments when his heart had managed to overcome the angel dust and go against Samaritan's orders, proving by that fact that his will and feelings were weapons far more powerful than any drug and advanced technology. He would fight. For himself. For Finch. The Machine had made him realize that his life was intimately linked to his partner: that if he died, Harold would die too. So he had decided to live... Or rather, to survive...

Then suddenly the weak, trembling, begging voice of Finch near him drew him from his lethargy.

 _I won't be able to live without you..._

These were words he had so often dreamed of hearing... And now, his mind disoriented by withdrawal was beginning to play tricks on him. He was dreaming once again. But this dream was sweet. It warmed his heart and relieved his suffering a little. But these little words, uttered in a whisper and punctuated with sobs, had the merit of appeasing his conscience.

He knew well that it was only a mirage. Finch was supposed to be in the hospital, to heal the wounds that had been inflicted on him. Finch also had to be traumatized by the abuse he had suffered and might not want to see him any more. He would understand perfectly if that were the case. If he were to distance himself to leave his partner in peace, he would do so without a shadow of hesitation. This experience had proved to him once again that he was dangerous; that death, a faithful companion, punctuated his life and took in its turn all the people dear to his heart. Yes, if he had to leave to live, he would. He was used to sacrifice, and this was worth the pain...

But to his great surprise, new words, much stronger, caused him to react.

 _I love you. Oh! If you knew how much I love you..._

Suddenly, Reese felt the darkness surrounding him brighten: a trickle of light that enveloped him with its warmth. This inner world, which was hitherto made of darkness, remorse, pain, and cold, found itself illuminated with an extraordinarily comforting and soothing radiance. He wanted to talk, move, but something kept him held hostage.

Finch seemed so close to him that he could feel his presence next to him. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids remained ostensibly closed as if sealed. He tried to talk but no sound passed through his lips. He only managed to move his fingers.

Then, at the cost of a superhuman effort and extreme concentration, Reese finally managed to open his eyes. Despite the blurred vision and disorientation due to his prolonged coma, the agent instantly spotted Finch at his bedside. Some details struck him immediately: the blue eyes were fogged with tears but full of hope, the hollow features on his tired face, and the anguished crease of his mouth.

It wasn't a dream. Finch was right there, next to him. And the love he saw in the blue irises partly assuaged the guilt that weighed down his body and darkened his soul. He wanted to speak, to confess, in a much less dramatic context than under the threat of weapons, in a cell, under Samaritan's gaze, all the love he felt for Finch, but no sound came out of his dry mouth.

Finch seemed to read his thoughts and squeezed his hand as he urged him gently but firmly to keep quiet. "Don't try to talk. Rest."

Reese closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort he had just deployed. It was then that a gentle hand lay on his cheek.

"Welcome back to us," he heard whispered against his ear.

He opened his eyes again. It was already less difficult. It seemed to him that his arm weighed a ton but he still managed to lift it and laid his hand on that of his companion. He was surprised to find that he was trembling. Despite his condition, his pain, his trauma, Reese felt the urgent need to reassure Finch. He had suffered enough. _I'm fine, don't worry about me_ , he wanted to say. But his mouth refused to articulate any word. The agent then grabbed Finch's hand and carried it to his lips to lay a kiss on it. He felt then something flowing on his face, lukewarm and moist.

A tear.

Upset, Reese felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. Finch was crying. Finch, the calm, thoughtful man, always under control and so modest, was crying.

"My God, I'm crying like an idiot," Finch said, trying awkwardly to wipe the tears that flowed continually down his cheeks, "but I'm so relieved to see you awake."

Relieved?! How could Finch be relieved to see him alive, who had done him so much harm? He, who had made him suffer so much? And suddenly the words of the Machine returned to his memory: Finch loved him. This realization, already glimpsed in the cell at the moment when their lives had seemed to hold on only by a thread, evoked by the Machine during his unconsciousness, struck him like a ton of bricks.

He was overwhelmed by two opposite feelings: the joy of seeing that his feelings were shared, but also the impression of not deserving this love. John raised his hand with difficulty and laid it on Finch's cheek, wiping the tears that continued to flow.

"I don't know what I will do without you," continued Harold as he took the agent's hand before placing a kiss on it in his turn. "You saved me."

 _That's wrong; I didn't save you, I hurt you, I mutilated you, I tried to kill you_ , thought John. _The one who really saved you is the Machine, your creation, yourself..._ He opened his mouth to tell him the truth but a weak rattle escaped. Pathetic. He was pathetic in his cowardice and helplessness.

"Don't try to talk," repeated Finch as he straightened himself with difficulty and turned away from the bed.

Reese watched him painfully limp to a small table on the other side of the room, on which medications were stored. It was then that he realized that he was in the Faraday cage that Finch had built in the subway station for the battle simulations between Samaritan and the Machine. That's why he felt so well. He was at home.

Reassured that he and Finch were safe, he brought his attention to his friend. Despite his blurred vision and a still fogged brain, John noticed the other man's hesitant approach. His heart ached painfully as he realised how much Harold must be suffering from his wounds.

"Do you know how long you've been in a coma?" Harold asked as he poured water into a glass before returning to his bedside. "More than two days."

 _Two days!_

That's why he had felt so awful. He was in the middle of withdrawal! However, Reese did feel a little better since his awakening. He felt that his condition was improving: that his stomach aches were less violent, that the vise around his head was loosening, and that his nausea was disappearing. But suddenly he realized something else.

 _Two days?!_

How could Finch be standing in front of him after the wounds that had been inflicted upon him? To his greatest misfortune, he remembered perfectly what he had inflicted on Finch. He still felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the resistance of the skin at the time he had pressed the blade into his belly, the different movements he had applied to the weapon to do the most damage, while ensuring that they were also the most painful possible.

Finch must have been operated on. How had he been allowed to get out of the hospital so early? That certainly wasn't prudent. Lost in his thoughts and worried, Reese didn't hear Finch's approach.

"Here, drink some water," proposed the recluse as he handed him a glass of fresh water.

Finch's smile was almost unbearable for John. The love he saw shining in the blue eyes seemed to him like so many stab wounds in the heart! He didn't deserve that gaze. He didn't deserve that love.

The agent inhaled deeply and sat up with difficulty, making sure to not show his discomfort. He took the glass, taking care not to touch his partner's fingers, and drank all the water before lying down again on his pillow, under the Finch's benevolent expression. John closed his eyes to escape that glance.

Harold was concerned about Reese's attitude. He placed his hand gently on the younger man's forearm that rested on the blankets, and whispered, "Get some rest."

Reese didn't respond. Thinking that he was drowsy, exhausted by the effort he had just made after long hours of coma, Finch bent down and laid a kiss on Reese's damp forehead. Relieved to see that the antidote given by the Machine was working, the computer scientist murmured to John, "I love you so much." Then he turned on his heel and left the Faraday cage, eager to inform his female partners of John's awakening. He didn't notice the tears that silently rolled down the agent's cheeks, darkened by a two-day growth of beard.

Finch carefully closed the gate before joining his friends in the grand hall of the abandoned station. He imagined them to be nervous and feverish, awaiting his return anxiously to hear about John. But neither of the two women came to meet him as he stepped into the immense vestibule. Worried and slightly disappointed by what he interpreted as an astonishing indifference after all the hardships they had gone through, he swept the vast place with his gaze, searching for them.

He quickly spotted Shaw, who was busy arranging objects on a metal tray in the small dressing room next to the main hall. As for Root, she sat in front of her desk, totally absorbed by the information that was scrolling on the screens in front of her. For a moment, Harold could have sworn that the nightmare of the last few days had never happened. The place seemed calm, quiet, almost peaceful, while merely an hour ago, fear, anguish, and despair reigned.

Disturbed and slightly worried, he moved forward to observe the two young women who, to his surprise, didn't seem to have noticed his presence yet... or royally didn't care, being occupied with much more important concerns. He then decided to make them react by dropping the little bombshell he had mentally prepared. "John is awake."

"That's not exactly true, he's fallen asleep," corrected Shaw without looking up from her work.

Totally lost, Finch watched her tidying up surgical tools, sterile compresses, and small glass jars on the small tray in front of her with an almost obsessive care.

"Yes, we're aware," replied Root in a slightly more affable tone, swivelling on her seat to look at her friend.

With eyes agape, Finch stared at them without understanding. He'd expected a multitude of reactions: jumps of joy, warm hugs, tears of relief, but certainly not this relative indifference tinged with an uncharacteristic detachment, as if the two women had a mission much more important than putting John back on his feet.

But as a cloud of anger mounted in the computer scientist's mind, colouring his cheeks bright red and troubling his still-damp gaze with the violent emotions he had felt just after the awakening of his partner, the hacker's dazzling smile and warmth instantly dispersed his fury. His rational and Cartesian mind then took over. How could they know? What had made Root so happy? Admittedly, knowing that John was awake wasn't foreign to this relief, but there was something else, he was certain.

That's when he understood.

"The Machine..." he murmured as an obvious statement. Only the Machine could already know. She must have used the chip, still implanted in John's brain, to bypass the gates of the Faraday cage and have access to the inside of the chamber. She probably had put Root in the loop as soon as the agent woke up. That's why the hacker was so happy. Her dear friend had regained contact with her.

"She started talking to me again, Harold!" said the young woman jubilantly, as she quickly rose from her seat to hug the man eagerly.

"It's... wonderful," Finch replied, uncomfortable with this outpouring to which he was not accustomed, and a little unseated by the Machine's attitude. He was obviously very happy that the AI had renewed its habits and reconnected with its Analog Interface. He'd been so afraid that the consequences of his reckless acts would lead to a catastrophe that he couldn't contain a huge sigh of relief, a part of his guilt flying away like magic. On the other hand, he still felt responsible for what had happened to John, and he was sensing that he would take time to overcome his discomfort.

He was responsible for so many disasters. His ignorance, his obstinacy, his vanity, his blindness... his choices had led to the bombing of the ferry and the deaths of dozens of innocents, including Nathan. And now John was paying the price for his mistakes. But as usual, Root's good humour turned Finch away from his dark thoughts.

"Oh yes, I am so relieved that she started talking to me again! Everything's going back to normal," exclaimed the hacker before returning to sit in front of the monitors.

"What did she say?" asked Finch after a second's hesitation, driven by curiosity.

"She thinks that Shaw could take advantage of Reese's being asleep to remove the chip. She doesn't need it any more and she thinks the big tough guy will soon want to stretch his legs and get out of his cage," explained the young woman without looking up from her screens.

Finch stood behind the chair on which Root was sitting and glanced at the information on the monitors. "It's..." he began as he contemplated the photograph of an anonymous face displayed on the screen.

"A new Number," finished the young woman with a smile in the corner of her mouth.

"The Machine's decided to continue the missions," Finch concluded, immensely reassured by his creation's behaviour. So the Machine hadn't lied to him. Even at full power, even free from restraint, she had decided to stay with them and continue the missions for which she had been created. What wonderful news! What an incredible asset in their fight against Samaritan!

Because Finch hadn't forgotten that they still hadn't defeated the rival AI. Even though Greer was no longer, he was convinced that the supercomputer had already set its sights on another administrator. For Samaritan, men were interchangeable, like pawns that could be manipulated and used in its own way in order to achieve its goal, with little import for the losses and consequences.

"She doesn't want you to," declared the hacker abruptly as she turned to him with a grave expression.

"To what?" asked the recluse, suddenly uncomfortable.

"To doubt her," clarified Root with a sad smile.

Ashamed, Finch lowered his eyes. For unlike the young woman who had always had absolute confidence in the Machine, Finch had never ceased to doubt, to constrain, even to fight against his creation.

"She loves you, more than you believe, more than you can imagine," continued the young woman, her eyes fogged with tears. "She will always watch over you and never do anything to disappoint you."

"Yes... I know that now," confessed Finch, his throat closed with emotion.

"Sorry to interrupt this emotional moment, but I'll need a helping hand to remove this pesky chip from Reese," Shaw cut in with her usual tact.

For brief seconds, the two computer scientists didn't respond, each lost in the eyes of the other, as if the exchange continued silently. Root averted her eyes first and turned to her companion. "You can always count on me," she said, addressing Shaw with a dazzling smile.

The ex-assassin raised her eyes upward before turning to take the tray on which she had carefully aligned all the tools needed to extract the chip from Reese's cerebral cortex. With her arms loaded with all her medical paraphernalia, she exited the train car, followed by Root who would act as a nursing aide. But before rushing into Faraday's cage, the hacker turned to Finch and called, "You can continue the search, Harry! Just like old times!"

In a silent stupor, Finch watched the gate close behind the two women without initiating any action. He blinked his eyes several times, needing time to understand the request, or rather the injunction from Root. Once the initial shock passed he settled in front of his screens, put his hands on his keyboard, and then straightened his head to read the folder of the new Number that was still displayed. A smile appeared on his tired face. Just like that, everything was back to normal...

Yes, once he was recovered, John could resume the missions under the benevolent and powerful eye of a fully liberated Machine.

Yes... Normal...

Finch repeated that word, as if to convince himself. Because in spite of everything, something still troubled him: a doubt, a fear, a fatal foreboding. He had tried to reason with himself, to say that everything would work out for the best, and that his fears were irrational; without doubt the result of the trauma he had suffered, he couldn't help but have doubts.

He then decided to ignore his pessimistic nature and concentrate on collecting information about their brand new Number, hoping, with a little bitterness, that it would be less complicated than the last.

* * *

At first, everything seemed to go smoothly. The antidote given by the Machine had provided full satisfaction. John's general condition improved from hour to hour. The fever, his stomach aches, his migraine and his nausea were nothing more than bad memories. His heart regained a normal rhythm, to the point that Shaw no longer felt it necessary to monitor him. She removed the electrodes from his chest and disconnected the monitor that she abandoned in a corner of the room.

The surgery that she performed on Reese also went well. Thanks to her experience as a surgeon, she managed to extract the chip without too much difficulty. The object, a tiny gem filled with electronics and still connected to Samaritan, was kept by Finch in order to continue the simulations with the Machine. Now that his creation was no longer bridled, he hoped that she would succeed in beating her nemesis. But the most important thing was that John had no complications. Apart from a small dressing behind the ear, nothing could suggest that the man had undergone such a delicate operation.

That same evening, the younger man found a semblance of appetite, or at least, he tried to eat to make a good appearance in front of his partners who didn't let him leave their sight. As he gradually regained his strength, he even managed to take a few steps in his brand new room, in the apartment that served them as a safe house on occasion. But the girls couldn't take advantage of the agent's progress for too long; they had to take care of their new Number. But they weren't worried because they knew that John was in good hands.

Over the following days, Finch followed his partner's progress with a particular interest. Although he was relieved to see John's health improve, his feeling of discomfort was growing. He felt that the other man was distant, restrained, on the defensive. Reese seemed to avoid his gaze and fled any contact, answering his questions with polite monosyllables but apparently preferring to be alone rather than in his company. The computer scientist was saddened by this cold attitude but didn't let anything show.

Had he been misled? The confessions that John had made to him in the cell before Greer had intervened: were they sincere or were they the result of the drug? Doubt began to creep into him like a poison, tarnishing the joy of seeing his partner in full health.

Still, John remembered everything. He was convinced of that. On the one hand, Shaw explained to him that although angel dust allowed the control of the agents by annihilating their will to make them more docile, it kept them fully aware of their actions. He was equally certain that Reese was worried about the microchip in his brain. Moreover, how could he explain his discomfort if it were not for the guilt that he had to feel when he remembered the abuse he had inflicted on him? So he had to remember.

But by imagining, as highly unlikely as it was, that this wasn't the case, that John had no memory of the things he had said or done in that cell, Finch now knew what he had left to do.

These dramatic events had radically changed his vision of life. He, who previously, would have suppressed his feelings for fear of harming their partnership, for fear of destroying their friendship, knew that he had to act. He had suddenly realised that life was too short, too fragile. It could change at any time, for better or worse. If John no longer had any recollection of his confession, or if he didn't wish to remember (which, in the end, was effectively the same thing) Finch needed to take his courage with both hands and have a heart-to-heart conversation with him. To reassure him, to tell him that he had nothing for which to reproach himself, to admit that he loved him with all his soul, and to have no regrets.

Taking courage from this decision, Finch entered Reese's room with his arms loaded with a generously filled meal tray. But as he stepped into the room, he was surprised to find the bed empty. An irrational fear overwhelmed him, as he'd been concerned that his friend would disappear again.

He anxiously swept the room with his gaze, and was relieved to find John standing in front of his bedroom window, barefoot, simply clothed in pajama pants and a thin white cotton T-shirt. Lost in the contemplation of the sunset that haloed the New York landscape with an astonishing red-orange colour, the younger man had absolutely not moved, as if he hadn't noticed Finch's presence; or perhaps, he pretending not to have noticed it. In view of his distant attitude since he'd awakened, this second option was highly probable.

Harold felt his heart tighten as he observed the tall silhouette of his partner carved out in the scarlet backlight. He was slouched, his shoulders collapsed, his head low. The man always seemed to bear the weight of the world. Seeing his friend so depressed had impelled Harold to his decision to speak to him as soon as possible, to erase the stigma of this painful experience, doubtless one of the most traumatic of his short but already very hectic life. Because even though John's wounds were superficial, Finch was much more worried about the psychological effects. Reese was so crushed that there was no doubt that he was being inwardly gnawed at by a concealed pain. If Harold wanted to have a conversation with him, he had to make sure that John was willing to listen to him.

He slowly approached the bed, the thick carpet on the floor masking the sound of his footsteps. John started violently when Finch laid the meal tray on one of the bedside tables. Finch froze. His partner wasn't ignoring him, but he had been so lost in his thoughts that he simply hadn't heard his approach. This was an immediate concern. In normal circumstances it would've been impossible for him to surprise his partner in this way. John would've heard him approaching, probably from the hallway, even before he entered the room... Something was truly disturbing him for him to lower his defenses so much.

"John, you have to take care of yourself. Sit down, I brought your dinner for you," murmured Harold in a soft voice as he slowly approached his partner. He struggled against the furious urge to hug John and hold him tightly against himself, as if to assure himself that he was alive and well. But he restrained himself, having perfectly perceived the latent tension in his companion and his increasingly stiff posture as he approached.

Seeing no reaction from John, Finch laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The agent quivered violently before pulling away as if this contact had burned him. The recluse was deeply wounded but didn't allow it to show.

Reese glanced at the tray before turning to the window. "I'm not hungry," he announced in a tired voice, as if answering his partner was an effort.

Finch had the clear impression that Reese preferred to be alone rather than in his company. He avoided his gaze, eschewed any contact and turned his back. Feeling like death in the soul, the computer scientist murmured, "All right, I shall leave the tray in case..."

"I would like to take a shower," John brutally interrupted him, and headed towards the adjoining bathroom.

"Yes, of course," the recluse replied eagerly, relieved that his agent was consenting to speak to him, even if the information was merely banal. "I will look for clean clothes."

The click of the bathroom lock was the only answer Finch received. John was already no longer in the room. Harold interpreted his attitude as an escape: one of the many symptoms of post-traumatic syndrome that the genius had spotted in his partner.

Indeed, worried by Reese's behaviour since his awakening, Finch had done some research on the subject by hacking the data of the institution that was the best informed in the matter: the Army. The concept of post-traumatic syndrome was born in the twentieth century when the victims of the war were increasingly numerous, especially after the First and Second World Wars. But the U.S., relatively spared by these two conflicts, had no real interest in this psychological reaction linked to a traumatic event, until after the Vietnam war. This interest had increased thereafter.

To Finch, John had all the signs of PTSD. First of all, there were the nightmares. Since the agent had come out of the coma, he had not spent a peaceful night. Finch had heard his agitation: moving, moaning, and even screaming in his sleep. The second symptom that he'd identified was depression. As well, the younger man seemed detached and indifferent to all things. And now the genius saw in John's retreat to the bathroom, a third element: avoidance.

 _Flight_...

His back against the bathroom door, John closed his eyes to try to calm the erratic beats of his heart and stifle the sense of panic he had felt as soon as Finch had entered his room. He'd felt so horrible in his presence, seeing his laborious gait and the grimace of pain at each of his movements. All these little details reminded John furiously of what he had done to Finch and how dangerous he was. He had to flee, put as much distance between Finch and him as possible to protect him.

With mechanical gestures, he undressed and then entered the Italian shower. He opened the faucet without taking the trouble to adjust the temperature. Immediately, a cascade of icy water struck him. John seemed completely disconnected from reality and indifferent to the bitter cold that anesthetized his muscles, but also his mind. And that was the most important thing: to calm the torments of his spirit, to erase the nagging images of torture and abuse that kept haunting him since his awakening. Head bowed, his eyes riveted on his feet, he let the water fall on his skull, stream down his shoulders, down his chest, belly, and legs before getting lost in the sewer drain.

But soon his body protested against this shock treatment. His muscles contracted painfully before he began to tremble. His teeth chattered and his whole body experienced shivers so intense that his legs could not support him. He found handholds on the shower ledge to try to keep himself upright but he quickly realised that it was a lost cause. Slowly the man slipped to the floor. He choked back a cry when his knees collided with the hard tiles. The water continued to hit him without respite, the shower head spitting jets whose icy droplets pierced him like so many sharp needles. And like the icy torrent pouring over him, the tears sprang from his closed eyes without his being able to control them.

Curled up in the fetal position at the bottom of the shower, indifferent to the water that struck him, and to his dangerously low body temperature, the man was shaken by violent spasms with mingled tremors and sobs. He had more and more trouble breathing. He opened his mouth in search of oxygen, but his breathing was laborious, short, and erratic, as if he had just run a marathon.

Deep down, John knew what the dark evil was that had plagued him since his awakening. He knew it very well, even after seeing it multiple times with his army comrades or in the CIA when returning from particularly arduous missions. He was suffering from post-traumatic syndrome. But despite his past experiences, his training, and his resistance to pain, he couldn't contain the panic attack that threatened to engulf him.

And suddenly, like a dam yielding under too much pressure, the terrible emotions he had tried so hard to contain overwhelmed him with tenfold violence. His sight darkened but the tears wouldn't come; his heart felt squeezed to the point that his chest burned. He felt like the tiled walls of the shower were inexorably approaching him, as if they wanted to crush him. The nausea rebounded inexorably from his stomach and knotted his throat, filling his mouth with a sickening mixture of bile and leftover meals. He began to vomit, the icy water from the shower carrying into the sewers what his intestines were rejecting. Incapable of control, the man emptied himself as if he were trying to expel the darkness he had inside of him.

After expelling the contents of his stomach, John didn't feel any better. It was even worse. His now empty belly contracted painfully, without any hope of relief. He closed his eyes to try to find a semblance of calm but was completely lost. Images, each more nightmarish than the last assailed him: blood, lacerations, tight bonds... All these odious things that had been asked of him to do, whether by the army, the CIA, or a little while ago, Samaritan, broke in his mind at the speed of a galloping horse. He was good at it. He excelled in doing evil. And even when he had wanted to change, with the contact with Finch and his Machine, he had finally failed to get away from his deep nature. The genius had simply directed his violence towards a more honourable goal, more righteous values; but in the end he had remained the same: a dangerous and violent man, sowing desolation and death behind him. How many loved ones had died or suffered because of his faults? Jessica, Carter, and now Finch. The missions had just given him a varnish of redemption, a feeling of security to put his deadly skills to the service of a noble and righteous cause. But he now knew that this impression was a mirage; his salvation, impossible. As long as lived, he would be dangerous, a murderer, a monster.

Then a black veil sank before his eyes.

He was suffocating.

He was choking.

The darkness was swallowing him again.

But as he sank, he heard Finch's panicked voice exclaiming behind him.

"My God! John?!"

 _God..._

It had been a long time since John had believed in God. How could he have believed after all that he had seen, after all that had been done to him, and especially what he had done to others. If God existed, he had forgotten it for a very long time. Despite his semi-consciousness, the younger man found it rather ironic that Finch, this man of science and progress, was referring to God. But he was too weak to embark on a debate on which, belief or science, was more legitimate. Moreover there was no debate: the two dogmas could not reach the same conclusion. A scientist might very well believe, and the opposite was obviously quite possible... Nevertheless, what John found admirable was that after all that the recluse had lived through and endured, he still had faith in mankind, trust in man, trust in him...

Lost between two worlds, that of consciousness and unconsciousness, John hardly noticed the shower being turned off. On the other hand, he perceived soothing warmth wrapping around him. First he felt the softness of a sponge towel against his cold blue skin, and then the vigorous rubbing to warm it up. Rapidly he understood that Finch had reached his arms around him to hold him tightly while whispering comforting words.

"Shh... It's all right, John." Kneeling behind John, oblivious to the moisture being absorbed into his expensive suit and to the painful position for his hip, Finch tucked his head into John's shoulder, his mouth against his ear, reassuring him constantly while gently rocking him. "Don't worry, I'm here."

Little by little the darkness began to dissipate, its ills to diminish. His sobs ceased and his tremors dimmed. The crisis had passed. "Leave me," the agent managed to articulate painfully between two clicks of his teeth.

"Never," replied the recluse with assuring firmness. "I will never leave you."

John preferred to remain silent and closed his eyes. His decision had been made. Nevertheless he savoured the warmth of his partner against him, his soothing breath against his cheek, his fingers slipping through his hair to tease the damp wicks off his face.

"I was so afraid to lose you, to never to see you again," continued Finch, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Gradually, John found his composure. He was no longer trembling and could breathe normally. Pulling the ends of the towel around himself, the agent reopened his eyes and stared at the shower tiles without saying anything.

Understanding that the crisis was over, Finch straightened up and helped John to stand. He rubbed the towel energetically and then guided him into the bedroom. "Rest," he ordered gently as he pulled back the sheets, inviting his partner to lie down.

Now docile, the younger man dropped the towel to the floor and stretched out on the bed. He lay on his side, turning his back on his friend who was silently gazing at him, with his heart clenched at the sight of this broken man.

Greer's words returned painfully to Finch's memory.

 _To betray or being betrayed are rigorously identical and lead to the same disaster_...

So Harold had his answer: madness. Betrayal led to madness, as Shakespeare had so well described. He became aware that he should be more vigilant so that John would not end up as Othello had. Given the agent's past, this alternative was more than likely... Alas.

For long minutes, Finch contemplated John's naked back. He seemed to be sleeping. He was motionless, his breathing deep and steady. The recluse then took off his soaked suit jacket and waistcoat, loosened his tie, and stretched out on the bed. He gently pulled up the sheets and the blanket onto them before he snuggled lovingly against his partner. Then he gave a chaste kiss at the base of the salt and pepper hair before nestling his face in the hollow of John's neck. Finch stayed motionless for a moment, alert to the slightest movement of his agent. He was on the lookout for a new panic attack or a nightmare that would disturb his sleep.

But the computer scientist couldn't keep an eye on his friend forever. After long hours during which Finch had tried resolutely to stay awake, he finally sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, lulled by the regular breathing of the other man.

In the middle of the night, when Reese was quite sure that Finch had dozed off, he gently grasped the arms that still held him firmly and cautiously slipped from Finch's embrace without waking him. He turned and contemplated him with a mixture of tenderness and love. Lying on his side, Harold slept deeply, his features tires and drawn. Harold hadn't even bothered to remove his glasses which now lay crooked on his face, giving him an endearing, slightly childish appearance. John smiled and restrained himself from removing them, fearing to inadvertently awaken his boss. He then stroked Finch's closed eyes with an almost painful emotion, admiring his noble features and his fragile silhouette.

Then the harsh reality descended. Earlier he had not heard Finch enter the room. He had then succumbed to a panic attack. He had to accept the evidence that he was no longer the agent he once was.

 _I'm no longer of any use._

 _I'm weak._

 _I am a liability to the team._

 _I'm dangerous._

 _I have to protect him._

John swallowed his tears and dressed with the clothes that Finch had abandoned on the floor when he had discovered him in the midst of a crisis in the shower. Like an automaton, avoiding the thought of the consequences of his gesture on his partner, and preferring to believe that this was the best solution for everyone, he put on his underwear, jeans, a white T-shirt and a hoodie. After a last sad glance at the man who still slept deeply, he exited the room on tiptoe, blessing the carpet that muffled the sound of his footsteps.

Once out in the hall, he quickly walked to the exit. But as he was about to climb the flight of steps that led to the door, he relented. He returned to the living room and went to the chess game that was ensconced on the coffee table. For a few seconds he observed the match that had begun long since between Finch and Elias but had been abandoned since the latter's death. Although John knew the rules, he had never been very good at this game. Yet he appreciated the subtlety and diversity of the strategies, which were very similar to those of the army. Besides, there was a maneuver that Reese particularly liked: the pawn sacrifice.

It was a matter of sacrificing a piece to gain an advantage or avoid defeat, in a precise way. That was what he was about to do: leave to save Finch and allow the team to continue the missions. With the tip of one index finger, he moved the bishop, one of the more important pieces of the chessboard, to make it vulnerable and attract the opponent's queen. He smiled before he turned on his heel, certain that Finch would understand.


End file.
